LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


The  Blood  of 
the  Conquerors 


NEW  BORZOI  NOVELS 
FALL,  1921 

PAN 

Knut  Hamsun 
DREAMERS 

Knut  Hamsun 
THE  TORTOISE 

Mary  Borden 
THE  CHINA  SHOP 

G.  B.  Stern 
THE  BRIARY-BUSH 

Floyd  Dell 
DEADLOCK 

Dorothy   Richardson 
THE  OTHER  MAGIC 

E.    L.    Grant-Watson 
WHITE  SHOULDERS 

George  Kibbe   Turner 
THE  CHARMED  CIRCLE 

Edward  Alden  Jewell 
THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  CONQUERORS 

Harvey  Furgusson 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

by 
Harvey  Fergusson 


New  York 

Alfred  -  A  •  Knopf 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


FEINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF   AMERICA 


The  Blood  of 
the  Conquerors 


CHAPTER  I 

Whenever  Ramon  Delcasar  boarded  a  railroad 
train  he  indulged  a  habit,  not  uncommon  among 
men,  of  choosing  from  the  women  passengers  the 
one  whose  appearance  most  pleased  him  to  be  the 
object  of  his  attention  during  the  journey.  If 
the  woman  were  reserved  or  well-chaperoned,  or 
if  she  obviously  belonged  to  another  man,  this  at- 
tention might  amount  to  no  more  than  an  occa- 
sional discreet  glance  in  her  direction.  He  never 
tried  to  make  her  acquaintance  unless  her  eyes  and 
mouth  unmistakably  invited  him  to  do  so. 

This  conservatism  on  his  part  was  not  due  to  an 
innate  lack  of  self-confidence.  Whenever  he  felt 
sure  of  his  social  footing,  his  attitude  toward 
women  was  bold  and  assured.  But  his  social  foot- 
ing was  a  peculiarly  uncertain  thing  for  the  reason 
that  he  was  a  Mexican.  This  meant  that  he 
faced  in  every  social  contact  the  possibility  of  a 
more  or  less  covert  prejudice  against  his  blood, 
and  that  he  faced  it  with  an  unduly  proud  and  sen- 
sitive spirit  concealed  beneath  a  manner  of  aristo- 
cratic indifference.  In  the  little  southwestern 
town  where  he  had  lived  all  his  life,  except  the 

[7] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

last  three  years,  his  social  position  was  ostensibly 
of  the  highest.     He  was  spoken  of  as  belonging 
to  an  old  and  prominent  family.     Yet  he  knew  of 
V     mothers  who  carefully  guarded  their   daughters 
from  the  peril  of  falling  in  love  with  him,  and  most 
of  his  boyhood  fights  had  started  when  some  one 
called  him  a  "damned  Mexican"  or  a  "greaser." 
Except  to  an  experienced  eye  there  was  little  in 
his  appearance  or  in  his  manner  to  suggest  his 
.  race.     His  swarthy  complexion  indicated  perhaps 
C  a  touch  of  the  Moorish  blood  in  his  Spanish  an- 
cestry, but  he  was  no  darker  than  are  many  Amer- 
icans bearing  Anglo-Saxon  names,   and  his  eyes 
(were    grey.     His    features    were    aquiline    and 
pleasing,  and  he  had  in  a  high  degree  that  bearing, 
at  once  proud  and  unself-conscious,  which  is  called 
aristocratic.     He  spoke  English  with  a  very  slight 
Spanish  accent. 

When  he  had  gone  away  to  a  Catholic  law 
school  in  St.  Louis,  confident  of  his  speech  and 
manner  and  appearance,  he  had  believed  that  he 
was  leaving  prejudice  behind  him;  but  in  this  he 
had  been  disappointed.  The  raw  spots  in  his  con- 
sciousness, if  a  little  less  irritated  at  the  college, 
were  by  no  means  healed.  Some  persons,  it  is 
true,  seemed  to  think  nothing  of  his  race  one  way 
or  the  other;  to  some,  mostly  women,  it  gave  him 
an  added  interest;  but  in  the  long  run  it  worked 
against  him.  It  kept  him  out  of  a  fraternity,  and 

[8] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

it  made  his  career  in  football  slow  and  hard. 

When  he  finally  won  the  coveted  position  of 
quarterback,  in  spite  of  team  politics,  he  made  a 
reputation  by  the  merciless  fashion  in  which  he 
drove  his  eleven,  and  by  the  fury  of  his  own  play- 
ing. 

The  same  bitter  emulative  spirit  which  had  im- 
pelled him  in  football  drove  him  to  success  in  his 
study  of  the  law.  Books  held  no  appeal  for  him, 
and  he  had  no  definite  ambitions,  but  he  had  a 
good  head  and  a  great  desire  to  show  the  gringos 
what  he  could  do.  So  he  had  graduated  high  in 
his  class,  thrown  his  diploma  into  the  bottom  of 
his  trunk,  and  departed  from  his  alma  mater  with- 
out regret. 

The  limited  train  upon  which  he  took  passage 
for  home  afforded  specially  good  opportunity  for 
his  habit  of  mental  philandering.  The  passengers 
were  continually  going  up  and  down  between  the 
dining  car  at  one  end  of  the  train  and  the  obser- 
vation car  at  the  other,  so  that  all  of  the  women 
daily  passed  in  review.  They  were  an  unusually 
attractive  lot,  for  most  of  the  passengers  were 
wealthy  easterners  on  their  way  to  California. 
Ramon  had  never  before  seen  together  so  many 
women  of  the  kind  that  devotes  time  and  money 
and  good  taste  to  the  business  of  creating  charm. 
Perfectly  gowned  and  groomed,  delicately  scented, 
they  filled  him  with  desire  anclwith  envy  for  the 

[9] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

men  whey  owned  them-—  There  were  two  newly 
InarnecT  couples  among  the  passengers,  and  several 
intense  flirtations  were  under  way  before  the 
train  reached  Kansas  City.  Ramon  felt  as  though 
he  were  a  spectator  at  some  delightful  carnival. 
He  was  lonely  and  restless,  yet  fascinated. 

For  no  opportunity  of  becoming  other  than  a 
spectator  had  come  to  him.  He  had  chosen  with- 
out difficulty  the  girl  whom  he  preferred,  but  had 
only  dared  to  admire  her  from  afar.  She  was  a 
little  blonde  person,  not  more  than  twenty,  with 
angelic  grey  eyes,  hair  of  the  colour  of  ripe  wheat 
and  a  complexion  of  perfect  pink  and  white.  The 
number  of  different  costumes  which  she  managed 
to  don  in  two  days  filled  him  with  amazement  and 
gave  her  person  an  ever-varying  charm  and  inter- 
est. She  appeared  always  accompanied  by  a  very 
placid-looking  and  portly  woman,  who  was  evi- 
dently her  mother,  and  a  tall,  cadaverous  sick 
man,  whose  indifferent  and  pettish  attitude  toward 
her  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  either  a  brother 
or  an  uncle,  for  Ramon  felt  sure  that  she  was  not 
married.  She  acquired  no  male  attendants,  but 
sat  most  of  the  time  very  properly,  if  a  little  rest- 
lessly, with  her  two  companions.  Once  or  twice 
Ramon  felt  her  look  upon  him,  but  she  always 
turned  it  away  when  he  glanced  at  her. 

Whether  because  she  was  really  beautiful  in  her 
own  petite  way,  or  because  she  seemed  so  unattain- 

[10] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

able,  or  because  her  small  blonde  daintiness  had 
a  peculiar  appeal  for  him,  Ramon  soon  reached  a 
state  of  conviction  that  she  interested  him  more 
than  any  other  girl  he  had  ever  seen.  He  dis- 
creetly followed  her  about  the  train,  watching  for 
the  opportunity  that  never  came,  and  consoling 
himself  with  the  fact  that  no  one  else  seemed 
more  fortunate  in  winning  her  favour  than  he. 
The  only  strange  male  who  attained  to  the  privi- 
lege of  addressing  her  was  a  long-winded  and  eld- 
erly gentleman  of  the  British  perpetual-travelling 
type,  at  least  one  representative  of  which  is  found 
on  every  transcontinental  train,  and  it  was  plain 
enough  that  he  bored  the  girl. 

Ramon  took  no  interest  in  landscapes  general- 
ly, but  when  he  awoke  on  the  last  morning  of  his 
journey  and  found  himself  once  more  in  the  wide 
and  desolate  country  of  his  birth,  he  was  so  deeply 
stirred  and  interested  that  he  forgot  all  about 
the  girl.  Devotion  to  one  particular  bit  of  soil  is 
a  Mexican  characteristic,  and  in  Ramon  it  was 
highly  developed  because  he  had  spent  so  much 
of  his  life  close  to  the  earth.  Every  summer  of 
his  boyhood  he  had  been  sent  to  one  of  the  sheep 
ranches  which  belonged  to  the  various  branches 
of  his  numerous  family.  Each  of  these  ranches 
was  merely  a  headquarters  where  the  sheep  were 
annually  dipped  and  sheared  and  from  which  the 
herds  set  out  on  their  long  wanderings  across  the 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

open  range.  Often  Ramon  had  followed  them — 
across  the  deserts  where  the  heat  shimmered  and 
the  yellow  dust  hung  like  a  great  pale  plume  over 
the  rippling  backs  of  the  herd,  and  up  to  the  sum- 
mer range  in  the  mountains  where  they  fed  above 
the  clouds  in  lush  green  pastures  crowned  with 
spires  of  rock  and  snow.  He  had  shared  the 
beans  and  mutton  and  black  coffee  of  the  herders 
and  had  gone  to  sleep  on  a  pile  of  peltries  to  the 
evensong  of  the  coyotes  that  hung  on  the  flanks 
of  the  herd.  Hunting,  fishing,  wandering,  he  had 
lived  like  a  savage  and  found  the  life  good. 

It  was  this  life  of  primitive_  freedom  that  he  had 
longed  for  in  his  exile."  He  had  thought  little  of 
his  family  and  less  of  his  native  town,  but  a  nos- 
talgia for  open  spaces  and  free  wanderings  had 
been  always  with  him.  He  had  come  to  hate  the 
city  with  its  hard  walled-in  ways  and  its  dirty  air, 
and  also  the  eastern  country-side  with  its  little 
green  prettiness  surrounded  by  fences.  He  longed 
for  a  land  where  one  can  see  for  fifty  miles,  and  not 
a  man  or  a  house.  He  thought  that  alkaline  dust 
on  his  lips  would  taste  sweet. 

Now  he  saw  again  the  scorched  tawny  levels, 
the  red  hills  dotted  with  little  gnarled  plnon  trees, 
the  purple  mystery  of  distant  mountains.  A  great 
friendly  warmth  filled  his  body,  and  his  breath 
came  a  little  quickly  with  eagerness.  When  he 

[12] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

saw  a  group  of  Mexicans  jogging  along  the  road 
on  their  scrawny  mounts  he  wanted  to  call  out 
to  them:  "Como  lo  va,  amigos?"  He  would  have 
liked  to  salute  this  whole  country,  which  was  his 
country,  and  to  tell  it  how  glad  he  was  to  see  it 
again.  It  was  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that  he 
loved,  and  the  only  thing  that  had  ever  given  him 
pleasure  without  tincture  of  bitterness. 

He  heard  two  men  in  the  seat  behind  him  talk- 
ing. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  desolate?"  one 
asked. 

"  I  wouldn't  live  in  this  country  if  they  gave  it 
to  me,"  said  the  other. 

Ramon  turned  and  looked  at  them.  They  were 
solid,  important-looking  men,  and  having  visited 
upon  the  country  their  impressive  disapproval, 
they  opened  newspapers  and  shut  it  away  from 
their  sight.  Dull  fools,  thought  Ramon,  who  do 
not  know  God's  country  when  they  see  it. 

And  then  he  continued  to  look  right  over  their 
heads  and  their  newspapers,  for  tripping  down 
the  aisle  all  by  herself  at  last,  came  the  girl  of 
his  fruitless  choice.  His  eyes,  deep  with  dreams, 
met  hers.  She  smiled  upon  him,  radiantly, 
blushed  a  little,  and  hurried  on  through  the  car. 

He  sat  looking  after  her  with  a  foolish  grin  on 
his  face.  He  was  pleased  and  shaken.  So  she 

[13] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

had  noticed  him  after  all.  She  had  been  waiting 
for  a  chance,  as  well  as  he.  And  now  that  it  had 
come,  he  was  getting  off  the  train  in  an  hour.  It 
was  useless  to  follow  her. .  .  .  He  turned  to  the 
window  again. 


CHAPTER     1 1 

Usually  in  each  generation  of  a  large  and  long- 
established  family  there  is  some  one  individual 
who  stands  out  from  the  rest  as  a  leader  and  as 
the  most  perfect  embodiment  of  the  family  tra- 
ditions and  characteristics.  This  was  especially 
true  of  the  Delcasar  family.  It  was  established 
in  this  country  in  the  year  1790  by  Don  Eusabio 
Maria  Delcasar  y  Morales,  an  officer  in  the  army 
of  the  King  of  Spain,  who  distinguished  himself  in 
the  conquest  of  New  Mexico,  and  especially  in 
certain  campaigns  against  the  Navajos.  As  was 
customary  at  that  time,  the  King  rewarded  his 
faithful  soldier  with  a  grant  of  land  in  the  new 
province.  This  Delcasar  estate  lay  in  the  Rio 
Grande  Valley  and  the  surrounding  mesa  lands. 
By  the  provisions  of  the  King's  grant,  its  dimen- 
sions were  each  the  distance  that  Don  Delcasar 
could  ride  in  a  day.  The  Don  chose  good  horses 
and  did  not  spare  them,  so  that  he  secured  to  his 
family  more  than  a  thousand  square  miles  of  land 
with  a  strip  of  rich  valley  through  the  middle  and 
a  wilderness  of  desert  and  mountain  on  either  side. 
Much  of  this  principality  was  never  seen  by  Don 
Eusabio,  and  even  the  four  sons  who  divided  the 

[15] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

estate  upon  his  death  had  each  more  land  than  he 
could  well  use. 

The  outstanding  figure  of  this  second  generation 
was  Don  Solomon  Delcasar,  who  was  noted  for 
the  magnificence  of  his  establishment,  and  for  his 
autocratic  spirit. 

No  Borgia  or  Bourbon  ever  ruled  more  abso- 
lutely over  his  own  domain  than  did  Don  Solomon 
over  the  hundreds  of  square  miles  which  made  up 
his  estate.  He  owned  not  only  lands  and  herds 
but  also  men  and  women.  The  peones  who 
worked  his  lands  were  his  possessions  as  much  as 
were  his  horses.  He  had  them  beaten  when  they 
offended  him  and  their  daughters  were  his  for  the 
taking.  He  could  not  sell  them,  but  this  restric- 
tion did  not  apply  to  the  Navajo  and  Apache 
slaves  whom  he  captured  in  war.  These  were  his 
to  be  sold  or  retained  for  his  own  use  as  he  pre- 
ferred. Adult  Indians  were  seldom  taken  prison- 
er, as  they  were  untamable,  but  boys  and  girls 
below  the  age  of  fifteen  were  always  taken  alive, 
when  possible,  and  were  valued  at  five  hundred 
pesos  each.  Don  Solomon  usually  sold  the  boys, 
as  he  had  plenty  of  peones,  but  he  never  sold  a 
comely  Indian  girl. 

The  Don  was  a  man  of  proud  and  irascible 
temper,  but  kindly  when  not  crossed.  He  had 
been  known  to  kill  a  peon  in  a  fit  of  anger,  and  then 

[16] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

afterward  to  bestow  all  sorts  of  benefits  upon  the 
man's  wife  and  children. 

The  life  of  his  home,  like  that  of  all  the  other 
Mexican  gentlemen  in  his  time,  was  an  easy  and 
pleasant  one.  He  owned  a  great  adobe  house, 
built  about  a  square  courtyard  like  a  fort,  and 
shaded  pleasantly  by  cottonwood  trees.  There  he 
dwelt  with  his  numerous  family,  his  peones  and  his 
slaves.  In  the  spring  and  summer  every  one 
worked  in  the  fields,  though  not  too  hard.  In  the 
fall  the  men  went  east  to  the  great  plains  to  kill  a 
supply  of  buffalo  meat  for  the  winter,  and  often 
after  the  hunt  they  travelled  south  into  Sonora 
and  Chihuahua  to  trade  mustangs  and  buffalo 
hides  for  woven  goods  and  luxuries. 

There  was  a  pleasant  social  life  among  the 
aristocrats  of  dances  and  visits.  Marriages, 
funerals  and  christenings  were  occasions  of  great 
ceremony  and  social  importance.  Indeed  every- 
thing done  by  the  Dons  was  characterized  by 
much  formality  and  ceremony,  the  custom  of  which 
had  been  brought  over  from  Spain.  But  they 
were  no  longer  really  in  touch  with  Spanish  civili- 
zation. They  never  went  back  to  the  mother 
country.  They  had  no  books  save  the  Bible  and 
a  few  other  religious  works,  and  many  of  them 
never  learned  to  read  these.  Their  lives  were 
made  up  of  fighting,  with  the  Indians  and  also 

[17] 


The  Blood  Of  The  Conquerors 

among  themselves,  for  there  were  many  feuds; 
of  hunting  and  primitive  trade;  and  of  venery 
upon  a  generous  and  patriarchal  scale.  They 
were  Spanish  gentlemen  by  descent,  all  for  honour 
and  tradition  and  sentiment;  but  by  circumstance 
they  were  barbarian  lords,  and  their  lives  were 
full  of  lust  and  blood. 

Circumstance  somewhat  modified  the  vaunted 
purity  of  their  Spanish  blood,  too.  The  Indian 
slave  girls  who  lived  in  their  houses  bore  the 
children  of  their  sons,  and  some  of  these  half- 
bred  and  quarter-bred  children  were  eventually  ac- 
cepted by  the  gente  de  razon,  as  the  aristocrats 
called  themselves.  In  this  way  a  strain  of  Navajo 
blood  got  into  the  Delcasar  family,  and  doubtless 
did  much  good,  as  all  of  the  Spanish  stock  was 
weakened  by  much  marrying  of  cousins. 

Dona  Ameliana  Delcasar,  a  sister  of  Don  Sol- 
omon, was  responsible  for  another  alien  infusion 
which  ultimately  percolated  all  through  the  fami- 
ly, and  has  been  thought  by  some  to  be  responsible 
for  the  unusual  mental  ability  of  certain  Del- 
casars.  Dona  Ameliana,  a  beautiful  but  some- 
what unruly  girl,  went  into  a  convent  in  Durango, 
Mexico,  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen  she  eloped  with  a  French  priest  named 
Raubien,  who  was  a  man  of  unusual  intellect  and 
a  poet.  The  errant  couple  came  to  New  Mexico 
and  took  up  lands.  They  were  excommunicated, 

08] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

of  course,  and  both  of  them  were  buried  in  un- 
consecrated  ground;  but  despite  their  spiritual 
handicaps  they  raised  a  family  of  eleven  comely 
daughters,  all  of  whom  married  well,  several  of 
them  into  the  Delcasar  family.  Thus  some  of  the 
Delcasars  who  boasted  of  their  pure  Castilian 
blood  were  really  of  a  mongre_Lbreed,  comprising 
along  with  the  many  strains  that  have  mingled 
in  Spain,  those  of  Navajo  and  French. 

Don  Solomon  Delcasar  played  a  brilliant  part 
in  the  military  activities  which  marked  the  winning 
of  Mexican  Independence  from  Spain  in  the 
eighteen-twenties,  and  also  in  the  incessant  Indian 
wars.  He  was  a  fighter  by  necessity,  but  also  by 
choice.  They  shed  blood  with  grace  and  non- 
chalance in  those  days,  and  the  Delcasars  were 
always  known  as  dangerous  men. 

The  most  curious  thing  about  this  regime  of  the 
old-time  Dons  was  the  way  in  which  it  persisted. 
It  received  its  first  serious  blow  in  1845  when  the 
military  forces  of  the  United  States  took  posses- 
sion of  New  Mexico.  Don  Jesus  Christo  Del- 
casar, who  was  then  the  richest  and  most  powerful 
of  the  family,  was  suspected  of  being  a  party  to 
the  conspiracy  which  brought  about  the  Taos  mas- 
sacre— the  last  organized  resistance  made  to  the 
gringo  domination.  At  this  time  some  of  the 
Delcasars  went  to  Old  Mexico  to  live,  as  did  a 
good  many  others  among  the  Dons,  feeling  that 

[19] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  old  ways  of  life  in  New  Mexico  were  sure  to 
change,  and  having  the  Spanish  aversion  to  any 
departure  from  tradition.  But  their  fears  were 
not  realized,  and  life  went  on  as  before.  In  1865 
the  peones  and  Indian  slaves  were  formally  set 
free,  but  all  of  them  immediately  went  deeply  in 
debt  to  their  former  masters  and  thus  retained 
in  effect  the  same  status  as  before.  So  it  hap- 
pened that  in  the  seventies,  when  New  York  was 
growing  into  a  metropolis,  and  the  factory  system 
was  fastening  itself  upon  New  England,  and  the 
middle  west  was  getting  fat  and  populous  and 
tame,  life  in  the  Southwest  remained  much  as  it 
had  been  a  century  before. 

Laws  and  governments  were  powerless  there 
to  change  ways  of  life,  as  they  have  always  been, 
but  two  parallel  bars  of  steel  reaching  across  the 
prairies  brought  change  with  them,  and  it  was 
great  and  sudden.  The  railroad  reached  the  Rio 
Grande  Valley  early  in  the  eighties,  and  it  smashed 
the  colourful  barbaric  pattern  of  the  old  life  as  the 
ruthless  fist  of  an  infidel  might  smash  a  stained 
glass  window.  The  metropolis  of  the  northern 
valley  in  those  days  was  a  sleepy  little  adotie  town 
of  a  few  hundred  people,  reclining  about  its  dusty 
plaza  near  the  river.  The  railroad,  scorning  to 
notice  it,  passed  a  mile  away.  Forthwith  a  new 
town  began  growing  up  between  the  old  one  and 
the  railroad.  And  this  new  town  was  such  a  town 

[20] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

as  had  never  before  been  seen  in  all  the  Southwest. 
It  was  built  of  wood  and  only  half  painted.  It  was 
ugly,  noisy  and  raw.  It  was  populated  largely 
by  real  estate  agents,  lawyers,  politicians  and  bar- 
keepers. It  cared  little  for  joy,  leisure,  beauty  or 
tradition.  Its  God  was  money  and  its  occupation 
was  business. 

This  thing  called  business  was  utterly  strange 
to  the  Delcasars  and  to  all  of  the  other  Dons. 
They  were  men  of  the  saddle,  fighting  men,  and 
traders  only  in  a  primitive  way.  Business  seemed 
to  them  a  conspiracy  to  take  their  lands  and  their 
goods  away  from  them,  and  a  remarkably  success- 
ful conspiracy.  Debt  and  mortgage  and  specula- 
tion were  the  names  of  its  weapons.  Some  of  the 
Dons,  including  many  of  the  Delcasars,  who  were 
now  a  very  numerous  family,  owning  each  a  com- 
fortable homestead  but  no  more,  sold  out  and  went 
to  Old  Mexico.  Many  who  stayed  lost  all  they 
had  in  a  few  years,  and  degenerated  into  petty 
politicians  or  small  storekeepers.  Some  clung  to 
a  bit  of  land  and  went  on  farming,  making  always 
less  and  less  money,  sinking  into  poverty  and  insig- 
nificance, until  some  of  them  were  no  better  off 
than  the  men  who  had  once  been  their  peones. 

Diego  Delcasar  and  Felipe  Delcasar,  brothers, 
were  two  who  owned  houses  in  the  Old  Town  and 
farms  nearby,  who  stayed  in  the  country  and  held 
their  own  for  a  time  and  after  a  fashion.  Diego 

[21] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Delcasar  was  far  the  more  able  of  the  two,  and  a 
true  scion  of  his  family.  He  caught  onto  the 
gringo  methods  to  a  certain  extent.  He  divided 
some  farm  land  on  the  edge  of  town  into  lots  and 
sold  them  for  a  good  price.  With  the  money  he 
bought  a  great  area  of  mountain  land  in  the  north- 
ern part  of  the  state,  where  he  raised  sheep  and 
ruled  with  an  iron  hand,  much  as  his  forbears  had 
ruled  in  the  valley.  He  also  went  into  politics, 
learned  to>  make  a  good  stump  speech  and  got 
himself  elected  to  the  highly  congenial  position  of 
sheriff.  In  this  place  he  made  a  great  reputation 
for  fearlessness  and  for  the  ruthless  and  skil- 
ful use  of  a  gun.  He  once  kicked  down  the  locked 
door  of  a  saloon  and  arrested  ten  armed  gamblers, 
who  had  threatened  to  kill  him.  He  was  known 
and  feared  all  over  the  territory  and  was  a  tyrant 
in  his  own  section  of  it.  When  a  gringo  pros- 
pector ventured  to  dispute  with  him  the  ownership 
of  a  certain  mine,  the  gringo  was  found  dead  in 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  It  was  reported  that 
he  had  fallen  in  and  broken  his  neck  and  no  one 
dared  to  look  at  the  bullet  hole  in  his  back. 

Don  Diego's  wife  died  without  leaving  him  any 
children,  but  he  had  numerous  children  none-the- 
less.  It  was  said  that  one  could  follow  his  wan- 
derings about  the  territory  by  the  sporadic  oc- 
currence of  the  unmistakable  Delcasar  nose  among 
the  younger  inhabitants.  All  of  his  sons  and 

[22] 


The  Blood  of  'the  Conquerors 

daughters  by  the  left  hand  he  treated  with  notable 
generosity.  He  was  a  sort  of  hero  to  the  native 
people  —  a  great  fighter,  a  great  lover  —  and 
songs  about  his  adventures  were  comoposed  and 
sung  around  the  fires  in  sheep  camps  and  by  gangs 
of  trackworkers. 

Don  Diego,  in  a  word,  was  a  true  Delcasar  and 
a  great  man.  Had  he  used  his  opportunities 
wisely  he  might  have  been  a  millionaire.  But  at 
the  age  of  sixty  he  owned  little  besides  his  house 
and  his  wild  mountain  lands.  He  drank  a  good 
deal  and  played  poker  almost  every  night.  Once 
he  had  been  a  famous  winner,  but  in  these  later 
years  he  generally  lost.  He  also  formed  a  part- 
nership with  a  real  estate  broker  named  Mac- 
Dougall,  for  the  development  of  his  wild  lands, 
and  it  was  predicted  by  some  that  the  leading 
'development  would  be  an  ultimate  transfer  of 
title  to  Mr.  MacDougall,  who  was  known  to  be 
lending  the  Don  money  and  taking  land  as  se- 
curity. 

Don  Felipe's  career  was  far  less  spectacular 
than  that  of  his  brother.  He  owned  more  than 
Don  Diego  to  start  with,  and  he  spent  his  life 
slowly  losing  it,  so  that  when  he  died  he  left 
nothing  but  a  house  in  Old  Town  and  a  single 
small  sheep  ranch,  which  afforded  his  widow, 
two  daughters  and  one  son  a  scant  living. 
This  son,  Ramon  Delcasar,  was  the  hope  of 

[23] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

1 

the  family.  He  would  inherit  the  estate  of  Don 
Diego,  if  the  old  Don  died  before  spending  it 
all,  which  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  he  would 
do.  But  Ramon  early  demonstrated  that  he 
had  a  more  important  heritage  in  the  sharp  in- 
telligence, and  the  proud,  plucky  and  truculent 
spirit  which  had  characterized  the  best  of  the 
Delcasars  throughout  the  family  history. 

As  there  was  no  considerable  family  estate  for 
him  to  settle  upon,  he  was  sent  to  law  school  at 
the  age  of  twenty,  and  returned  three  years  later 
to  take  up  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  his 
native  town.  Thus  he  was  the  first  of  the  Del- 
casars to  face  life  with  his  bare  hands.  And  he 
was  also  the  last  of  them  in  a  sense,  to  face  the 
gringos.  All  the  others  of  his  name,  save  the 
senile  Don,  had  either  died,  departed  or  sunk 
from  sight  into  the  mass  of  the  peasantry. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  III 

The  year  that  Ramon  returned  to  his  native 
town  the  annual  fair,  which  took  place  at  the 
fair-grounds  in  Old  Town,  was  an  especially  gor- 
geous and  throngful  event,  rich  in  spectacle  and 
incident.  A  steer  was  roped  and  hog-tied  in 
record  time  by  Clay  MacGarnigal  of  Lincoln 
County.  A  seven-mile  relay  race  was  won  by  a 
buck  named  Slonny  Begay.  In  the  bronco  bust- 
ing contest  two  men  were  injured  to  the  huge  en- 
joyment of  the  crowd.  The  twenty-seventh  cav- 
alry from  Fort  Bliss  performed  a  sham  battle. 
The  home  team  beat  several  other  teams.  Enor- 
mous apples  raised  by  irrigation  in  the  Pecos  Val- 
ley attracted  much  attention,  and  a  hungry  Mexi- 
can absconded  with  a  prize  Buff  Orpington  rooster. 

Twice  a  day  the  single  narrow  street  which 
connected  the  neat  brick  and  frame  respectability 
of  New  Town  with  the  picturesque  adobe  squalor 
of  Old  Town  was  filled  by  a  curiously  varied 
crowd.  The  tourist  from  the  East,  distin- 
guished by  his  camera  and  his  unnecessary  um- 
brella, jostled  the  Pueblo  squaw  from  Isleta, 
with  her  latest-born  slung  over  her  shoulder  in 
a  fold  of  red  blanket.  Mexican  families  from 

[25] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  country  marched  in  single  file,  the  men  first, 
then  the  women  enveloped  in  huge  black  shawls, 
carrying  babies  and  leading  older  children  by  the 
hand.  Cowboys,  Indians  and  soldiers  raced 
their  horses  through  the  swarming  street  with 
reckless  skill.  Automobiles  honked  and  fretted. 
The  street  cars,  bulging  humanity  at  every  door 
and  window,  strove  in  vain  to  relieve  the  situ- 
ation. Several  children  and  numerous  pigs  and 
chickens  were  run  over.  From  the  unpaved 
street  to  the  cloudless  sky  rose  a  vast  cloud  of 
dust,  such  as  only  a  rainless  country  made  of 
sand  can  produce.  Dust  was  in  every  one's  eyes 
and  mouth  and  upon  every  one's  clothing.  It  was 
the  unofficial  badge  of  the  gathering.  It  turned 
the  green  of  the  cottonwood  trees  to  grey,  and 
lay  in  wait  for  unsuspecting  teeth  between  the 
halves  of  hamburger  sandwiches  sold  at  corner 
booths. 

Ramon,  who  had  obtained  a  pass  to  the  grounds 
through  the  influence  of  his  uncle,  went  to  the  fair 
every  day,  although  he  was  not  really  pleased 
with  it.  He  was  assured  by  every  one  that  it  was 
the  greatest  fair  ever  held  in  the  southwest,  but 
to  him  it  seemed  smaller,  dustier  and  less  exciting 
than  the  fairs  he  had  attended  in  his  boyhood. 

This  impression  harmonized  with  a  general 
feeling  of  discontent  which  had  possessed  him 
since  his  return.  He  had  obtained  a  position  in 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  office  of  a  lawyer  at  fifty  dollars  a  month, 
and  spent  the  greater  part  of  each  day  making 
out  briefs  and  borrowing  books  for  his  employer 
from  other  lawyers.  It  seemed  to  him  a  petty 
and  futile  occupation,  and  the  way  to  anything 
better  was  long  and  obscure.  The  town  was 
full  of  other  yoijng  lawyers  who  were  doing  the 
same  things  and  doing  them  with  a  better  grace 
than  he.  They  were  impelled  by  a  great  desire  to 
make  money.  He,  too,  would  have  liked  a  great 
deal  of  money,  but  he  had  no  taste  for  piling  it 
up  dollar  by  dollar.  The  only  thing  that  cheered 
him  was  the  prospect  of  inheriting  his  uncle's 
wealth,  and  that  was  an  uncertain  prospect.  Don 
Diego  seemed  to  be  doing  what  he  could  to  get 
rid  of  his  property  before  he  died. 

Local  society  did  not  please  Ramon  either. 
The  girls  of  the  gringo  families  were  not  nearly 
as  pretty,  for  the  most  part,  as  the  ones  he  had 
seen  in  the  East.  The  dryness  and  the  scorching 
sun  had  a  bad  effect  on  their  complexions.  The 

!  girls  of  his  own  race  did  not  much  interest  him; 

i  his  liking  was  for  blondes.  And  besides,  girls 
were  relatively  scarce  in  the  West  because  of  the 
great  number  of  men  who  came  from  the  East. 
Competition  for  their  favours  was  keen,  and  he 
could  not  compete  successfully  because  he  had  so 
little  money. 

The  fair  held  but  one  new  experience  for  him, 

[27] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

and  that  was  the  Montezuma  ball.  This  took 
place  on  the  evening  of  the  last  day,  and  was  an 
exclusive  invitation  event,  designed  to  give 
elegance  to  the  fair  by  bringing  together 
prominent  persons  from  all  parts  of  the  state. 
Ramon  had  never  attended  a  Montezuma  ball, 
as  he  had  been  considered  a  mere  boy  before 
his  departure  for  college  and  had  not  owned  a 
dress  suit.  But  this  lack  had  now  been  supplied, 
and  he  had  obtained  an  invitation  through  the 
Governor  of  the  State,  who  happened  to  be  a 
Mexican. 

He  went  to  the  ball  with  his  mother  and  his  eld- 
est sister  in  a  carriage  which  had  been  among  the 
family  possessions  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury. It  had  once  been  a  fine  equipage,  and  had 
been  drawn  by  a  spirited  team  in  the  days  before 
Felipe  Delcasar  lost  all  his  money,  but  now  it  had 
a  look  of  decay,  and  the  team  consisted  of  a  couple 
of  rough  coated,  low-headed  brutes,  one  of  which 
was  noticeably  smaller  than  the  other.  The 

I  coachman  was  a  ragged  native  who  did  odd  jobs 

I  about  the  Delcasar  house. 

The  Montezuma  ball  took  place  in  the  new 
Eldorado  Hotel  which  had  recently  been  built 
by  the  railroad  company  for  the  entertainment  of 
its  transcontinental  passengers.  It  was  not  a 
beautiful  building,  but  it  was  an  apt  expression  of 
the  town's  personality.  Designed  in  the  ancient 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

style  of  the  early  Spanish  missions,  long,  low 
and  sprawling,  with  deep  verandahs,  odd  little 
towers  and  arched  gateways  it  was  made  of  cement 
and  its  service  and  prices  were  of  the  Manhattan 
school.  A  little  group  of  Pueblo  Indians,  lone- 
somely  picturesque  in  buck-skin  and  red  blankets, 
with  silver  and  turquoise  rings  and  bracelets, 
were  always  seated  before  its  doors,  trying  to  sell 
fruit  and  pottery  to  well-tailored  tourists.  It 
had  a  museum  of  Southwestern  antiquities  and 
curios,  where  a  Navajo  squaw  sulkily  wove 
blankets  on  a  handloom  for  the  edification  of  the 
guilded  stranger  from  the  East.  On  the  platform 
in  front  of  it,  perspiring  Mexicans  smashed  bag- 
gage and  performed  the  other  hard  labour  of 
rnpdern  terminal. 

ThujTthe  Elcforado  Hotel  was  rich  in  that  con- 
trast between  the  old  and  the  new  which  every- 
where characterized  the  town.  Generally  speak- 
mg>  tJ]JLJ5ld  waj^oji^exlnbition  or  a*-  work,  while 
the  new  was  at  leisure  or  in  charge. 

When  the  Delcasar  carriage  reached  the  hotel, 
it  had  to  take  its  place  in  a  long  line  of  crawling 
vehicles,  most  of  which  were  motor  cars.  Ramon 
felt  acutely  humiliated  to  arrive  at  the  ball  in  a 
decrepit-looking  rig  when  nearly  every  one  else 
came  in  an  automobile.  He  hoped  that  no  one 
would  notice  them.  But  the  smaller  of  the  two 
horses,  which  had  spent  most  of  his  life  in  the 

[29] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

country,  became  frightened,  reared,  plunged,  and 
finally  backed  the  rig  into  one  of  the  c  rs,  smash- 
ing a  headlight,  blocking  traffic,  and  making  the 
Delcasars  a  target  for  searchlights  and  oaths. 
The  Dona  Delcasar,  a  ponderous  and  swarthy 
woman  in  voluminous  black  silk,  became  excited 
and  stood  up  in  the  carriage,  shouting  shrill  and 
useless  directions  to  the  coachman  in  Spanish. 
People  began  to  laugh.  Ramon  roughly  seized 
his  mother  by  the  arm  and  dragged  her  down. 
He  was  trembling  with  rage  and  embarassment. 

It  was  an  immense  relief  to  him  when  he  had 
deposited  the  two  women  on  chairs  and  was  able 
to  wander  away  by  himself.  He  took  up  his 
position  in  a  doorway  and  watched  the  opening  of 
the  ball  with  a  cold  and  disapproving  eye.  The 
beginning  was  stiff,  for  many  of  those  present  were 

.unknown  to  each  other  and  had  little  in  common. 

:Most  of  them  were  "Americans,"  Jews  and 
Mexicans.  The  men  were  all  a  good  deal  alike 
in  their  dress  suits,  but  the  women  displayed  an 
astonishing  variety.  There  were  tall  gawky 
blonde  wives  of  prominent  cattlemen;  little  natty 
black-eyed  Jewesses,  best  dressed  of  all;  swarthy 
Mexican  mothers  of  politically  important  fam- 
ilies, resplendent  in  black  silk  and  diamonds;  and 
•  pretty  dark  Mexican  girls  of  the  younger  gen- 
eration, who  did  not  look  at  all  like  the  senoritas 

[30] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

of  romance,  but  talked,  dressed  and  flirted  in  a 
thorough  ty  American  manner. 

The  affair  finally  got  under  way  in  the  form  of 
a  grand  march,  which  toured  the  hall  a  couple  of 
times  and  disintegrated  into  waltzing  couples. 
Ramon  watched  this  proceeding  and  several  other 
dances  without  feeling  any  desire  to  take  part. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  grand  and  gloomy  discontent, 
which  was  not  wholly  unpleasant,  as  is  often  the 
case  with  youthful  glooms.  He  even  permitted 
himself  to  smile  at  some  of  the  capers  cut  by 
prominent  citizens.  But  presently  his  gaze  set- 
tled upon  one  couple  with  a  real  sense  of  resent- 
ment and  uneasiness.  The  couple  consisted  of  his 
uncle,  Diego  Delcasar,  and  the  wife  of  James 
MacDougall,  the  lawyer  and  real  estate  operator 
with  whom  the  Don  had  formed  a  partnership, 
and  whom  Ramon  believed  to  be  systematically 
fleecing  the  old  man. 

Don  Diego  was  a  big,  paunchy  Mexican  with 
a  smooth  brown  face,  strikingly  set  off  by  fierce 
white  whiskers.  His  partner  was  a  tall,  tight- 
lipped,  angular  woman,  who  danced  painfully, 
but  with  determination.  The  two  had  nothing  to 
say  to  each  other,  but  both  of  them  smiled 
resolutely,  and  the  Don  visibly  perspired  under 
the  effort  of  steering  his  inflexible  friend. 

Although  he  did  not  formulate  the  idea,  this 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

couple  was  to  Ramon  a  symbol  of  the  disgust  with 
which  the  life  of  his  native  town  inspired  him. 
Here  was  the  Mexican  sedulously  currying 
favour  with  the  gringo,  who  robbed  him  for  his 
pains.  And  here  was  the  specific  example  of  that 
relation  which  promised  to  rob  Ramon  of  his 
heritage. 

For  the  gringos  he  felt  a  cold  hostility — a 
sense  of  antagonism  and  difference — but  it  was  his 
senile  and  fatuous  uncle,  the  type  of  his  own  de- 
feated race,  whom  he  despised. 


[32] 


CHAPTER  IV 

When  the  music  stopped  Ramon  left  the  hall 
for  the  hotel  lobby,  where  he  soothed  his  sen- 
sibilities with  a  small  brown  cigarette  of  his  own 
making.  In  one  of  the  swinging  benches  covered 
with  Navajo  blankets  two  other  dress-suited 
youths  were  seated,  smoking  and  talking.  One  of 
them  was  a  short,  plump  Jew  with  a  round  and 
gravely  good-natured  face;  the  other  a  tall, 
slender  young  fellow  with  a  great  mop  of  curly 
brown  hair,  large  soft  eyes  and  a  sensitive  mouth. 

"She's  good  looking,  all  right,"  the  little  fellow 
assented,  as  Ramon  came  up. 

"Good  looking!"  exclaimed  the  other  with  en- 
thusiasm. "She's  a  little  queen!  Nothing  like 
her  ever  hit  this  town  before." 

"Who's  all  the  excitement  about?"  Ramon  de- 
manded, thrusting  himself  into  the  conversation 
with  the  easy  familiarity  which  was  his  right  as 
one  of  "the  bunch." 

Sidney  Felberg  turned  to  him  in  mock  amaze- 
ment. 

"Good  night,  Ramon!  Where  have  you  been? 
Asleep?  We're  talking  about  Julia  Roth,  same 
as  everybody  else  .  .  ." 

"Who's  she?"  Ramon  queried  coolly,  discharg- 

[33] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

ing  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  the  depths  of  his  lungs. 
"Never  heard  of  her." 

"Well,  she's  our  latest  social  sensation  .  .  . 
sister  of  some  rich  lunger  that  recently  hit  town; 
therefore  very  important.  But  that's  not  the  only 
reason.  Wait  till  you  see  her." 

UA11  right;  introduce  me  to  her,"  Ramon  sug- 
gested. 

"Go  on;  knock  him  down  to  the  lady,"  Sidney 
proposed  to  his  companion. 

"No,  you,"  Conny  demurred.  "I  refuse  to 
take  the  responsibility.  He's  too  good  look- 
ing." 

"All  right,"  Sidney  assented.  "Come  on.  It's 
the  only  way  I  can  get  a  look  at  her  anyway — 
introducing  somebody  else.  A  good-looking  girl 
in  this  town  can  start  a  regular  stampede.  We 
ought  to  import  a  few  hundred " 

It  was  during  an  intermission.  They  forced 
their  way  through  a  phalanx  of  men  brandishing 
programs  and  pencils,  each  trying  to  bring  him- 
self exclusively  to  the  attention  of  a  small  blonde 
person  who  seemed  to  have  some  such  quality  of 
attractiveness  for  men  as  spilled  honey  has  for  in- 
sects. 

When  Ramon  saw  her  he  felt  as  though  some- 
thing inside  of  him  had  bumped  up  against  his 
diaphragm,  taking  away  his  breath  for  a  moment, 
agitating  him  strangely.  And  he  saw  an  answer- 

[34] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

ing  surprised  recognition  in  her  wide  grey  eyes. 

"You  .  .  .you're  the  girl  on  the  train,"  he  re- 
marked idiotically,  as  he  took  her  hand. 

She  turned  pink  and  laughed. 

"You're  the  man  that  wouldn't  look  up,"  she 
mocked. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  demanded  Sidney. 
"You  two  met  before?" 

"May  I  have  a  dance?"  Ramon  inquired, 
suddenly  recovering  his  presence  of  mind. 

"Let  me  see  .  .  .  you're  awfully  late."  They 
put  their  heads  close  together  over  her  program. 
He  saw  her  cut  out  the  name  of  another  man  who 
had  two  dances,  and  then  she  held  her  pencil 
poised. 

"Of  course  I  didn't  get  your  name,"  she  ad- 
mitted, 

"No;  I'll  write  it.  .  .Was  it  Carter?    Delcasar? 
Ramon  Delcasar.     You  must  be  Spanish.     I  was  / 
wondering  .    .   .   you're   so   dark.     I'm   awfully  1 
interested    in    Spanish    people.  .  ."     She    wrote  i 
the  name  in  a  bold,  upright,  childish  hand. 

Ramon  found  that  he  had  lost  his  mood  of  dis- 
content after  this,  and  he  entered  with  zest  into 
the  spirit  of  the  dance  which  was  fast  losing  its 
stiff  and  formal  character.  Punch  and  music  had 
broken  down  barriers.  The  hall  was  noisy  with 
the  ringing,  high  pitched  laughter  of  excitement. 
It  was  warm  and  filled  with  an  exotic,  stimulating 

[35] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

odour,  compounded  of  many  perfumes  and  of  per- 
spiration. Every  one  danced.  Young  folk 
danced  as  though  inspired,  swaying  their  bodies  in 
time  to  the  tune.  The  old  and  the  fat  danced  with 
pathetic  joyful  earnestness,  going  round  and  round 
the  hall  with  red  and  perspiring  faces,  as  though 
in  this  measure  they  might  recapture  youth  and 
slimness  if  only  they  worked  hard  enough.  Now 
and  then  a  girl  sang  a  snatch  of  the  tune  in  a  clear 
young  voice,  full  of  abandon,  and  sometimes 
others  took  up  the  song  and  it  rose  triumphant 
above  the  music  of  the  orchestra  for  a  moment, 
only  to  be  lost  again  as  the  singers  danced  apart. 

Ramon  had  been  looking  forward  so  long  and 
with  such  intense  anticipation  to  his  dance  with 
Julia  Roth  that  he  was  a  little  self-conscious  at 
its  beginning,  but  this  feeling  was  abolished  by 
the  discovery  that  they  could  dance  together  per- 
fectly. He  danced  in  silence,  looking  down  upon 
her  yellow  head  and  white  shoulders,  the  odour  of 
her  hair  filling  his  nostrils,  forgetful  of  every- 
thing but  the  sensuous  delight  of  the  moment. 

This  mood  of  solemn  rapture  was  evidently  not 
shared  by  her,  for  presently  the  yellow  head  was 
thrown  back,  and  she  smiled  up  at  him  a  bit 
mockingly. 

"Just  like  on  the  train,"  she  remarked.  "Not 
a  thing  to  say  for  yourself.  Are  you  always  thus 
silent?" 

[36] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Ramon  grinned. 

"No,"  he  countered,  "I  was  just  trying  to  get 
up  the  nerve  to  ask  if  you'll  let  me  come  to  see 
you." 

"That  doesn't  take  much  nerve,"  she  assured 
him.  "Practically  every  man  I've  danced  with 
tonight  has  asked  me  that.  I  never  had  so  many 
dates  before  in  my  life." 

"Well;  may  I  follow  the  crowd,  then?" 

"You  may,"  she  laughed.  "Or  call  me  up  first, 
and  maybe  there  won't  be  any  crowd." 


[37] 


CHAPTER  V 

His  mother  and  sister  had  left  early,  for  which 
fact  he  was  thankful.  He  walked  home  alone 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  letting  the  cold  wind  of 
early  morning  blow  on  his  hot  brow.  Punch  and 
music  and  dancing  had  filled  him  with  a  delight- 
ful excitement.  He  felt  glad  of  life  and  full 
of  power.  He  could  have  gone  on  walking  for 
hours,  enjoying  the  rhythm  of  his  stride  and  the 
gorgeous  confusion  of  his  thoughts,  but  in  a  re- 
markably short  time  he  had  covered  the  mile  to  his 
house  in  Old  Town. 

It  was  a  long,  low  adobe  with  a  paintless  and 
rickety  wooden  verandah  along  its  front,  and 
with  deep-set,  iron-barred  windows  looking  upon 
the  square  about  which  Old  Town  was  built.  Del- 
casars  had  lived  in  this  house  for  over  a  century. 
Once  it  had  been  the  best  in  town.  Now  it  was 
an  antiquity  pointed  out  to  tourists.  Most  of  the 
Mexicans  who  had  money  had  moved  away  from 
Old  Town  and  built  modern  brick  houses  in  New 
Town.  But  this  was  an  .expensive  proceeding. 
The  old  adobe  houses  which  they  left  brought 
them  little.  The  Delcasars  had  never  been  able 
to  afford  this  removal.  They  were  deeply  at- 

[38] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

tached  to  the  old  house  and  also  deeply  ashamed 
of  it. 

Ramon  passed  through  a  narrow  hallway  into 
a  courtyard  and  across  it  to  his  room.  The  light 
of  the  oil  lamp  which  he  lit  showed  a  large  oblong 
chamber  with  a  low  ceiling  supported  by  heavy 
timbers,  whitewashed  walls  and  heavy  old- 
fashioned  walnut  furniture.  A  large  coloured 
print  of  Mary  and  the  Babe  in  a  gilt  frame  hung 
over  the  wash-stand,  and  next  to  it  a  college  pen- 
nant was  tacked  over  a  photograph  of  his  grad- 
uating class.  Several  Navajo  blankets  covered 
most  of  the  floor  and  a  couple  of  guns  stood  in  a 
corner. 

When  he  was  in  bed  his  overstimulated  state 
of  mind  became  a  torment.  He  rolled  and  tossed, 
beset  by  exciting  images  and  ideas.  Every 
time  that  a  growing  confusion  of  these  indicated 
the  approach  of  sleep,  he  was  brought  sharply 
back  to  full  consciousness  by  the  crowing  of  a 
rooster  in  the  backyard.  Finally  he  threw  off 
the  covers  and  sat  up,  cursing  the  rooster  in  two 
languages  and  resolving  to  eat  him. 

Sleep  was  out  of  the  question  now.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  that  this  was  Sunday  morning,  and 
that  he  had  intended  going  to  the  mountains. 
To  start  at  once  would  enable  him  to  avoid  an 
argument  with  his  mother  concerning  the  in- 
evitability of  damnation  for  those  who  miss  early 

[39] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Mass.  He  rose  and  dressed  himself,  putting 
on  a  cotton  shirt,  a  faded  and  dirty  pair  of  over- 
alls and  coarse  leather  riding  boots;  tied  a  red 
and  white  bandana  about  his  neck  and  stuck  on  his 
head  an  old  felt  hat  minus  a  band  and  with  a 
drooping  brim.  So  attired  he  looked  exactly  like 
a  Mexican  countryman — a  poor  rancher o  or  a 
woodcutter.  This  masquerade  was  not  inten- 
tional nor  was  he  conscious  of  it.  He  simply  wore 
for  his  holiday  the  kind  of  clothes  he  had  always 
worn  about  the  sheep  ranches. 

Nevertheless  he  felt  almost  as  different  from 
his  usual  self  as  he  looked.  A  good  part  of  his 
identity  as  a  poor,  discontented  and  somewhat 
lazy  young  lawyer  was  hanging  in  the  closet  with 
his  ready-made  business  suit.  He  took  a  long 
and  noisy  drink  from  the  pitcher  on  the  wash- 
stand,  picked  up  his  shot-gun  and  slipped  cau- 
tiously out  of  the  house,  feeling  care-free  and 
happy. 

Behind  the  house  was  a  corral  with  an  adobe 
wall  that  was  ten  feet  high  except  where  it 
had  fallen  down  and  been  patched  with  boards. 
A  scrub  cow  and  three  native  horses  were  kept 
there.  Two  of  the  horses  made  the  ill-matched 
team  that  hauled  his  mother  and  sister  to  church 
and  town.  The  other  was  a  fiery  ragged  little 
roan  mare  which  he  kept  for  his  own  use.  None 
of  these  horses  was  worth  more  than  thirty  dollars, 

[40] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

and  they  were  easily  kept  on  a  few  tons  of  alfalfa 
a  year. 

The  little  mare  laid  back  her  ears  and  turned  as 
though  to  annihilate  him  with  a  kick.  He  quickly 
stepped  right  up  against  the  threatening  hind  legs, 
after  the  fashion  of  experienced  horsemen  who 
know  that  a  kick  is  harmless  at  short  range,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  her  side.  She  trembled  but 
dared  not  move.  He  walked  to  her  head,  sliding 
his  hand  along  the  rough,  uncurried  belly  and 
talking  to  her  in  Spanish.  In  a  moment  he  had 
the  bridle  on  her. 

The  town  was  impressively  empty  and  still  as 
he  galloped  through  it.  Hoof  beats  rang  out  like 
shots,  scaring  a  late-roaming  cat,  which  darted 
across  the  street  like  a  runaway  shadow. 

Near  the  railroad  station  he  came  to  a  large 
white  van,  with  a  beam  of  light  emerging  from 
its  door.  This  was  a  local  institution  of  long- 
standing, known  as  the  chile-wagon,  and  was  the 
town's  only  all-night  resturant.  Here  he  aroused 
a  fat,  sleepy  old  Mexican. 

"Un  tamale  y  cafe"  he  ordered,  and  then  had 
the  proprietor  make  him  a  couple  of  sandwiches 
to  put  in  his  pocket.  He  consumed  his  breakfast 
hurriedly,  rolled  and  lit  a  little  brown  cigarette, 
and  was  off  again. 

His  way  led  up  a  long  steep  street  lined  with  new 
houses  and  vacant  lots;  then  out  upon  the  high 

[41] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

empty  level  of  the  mesa.  It  was  daylight  now, 
of  a  clear,  brilliant  morning.  He  was  riding 
across  a  level  prairie,  which  was  a  grey  desert  most 
of  the  year,  but  which  the  rainy  season  of  late  sum- 
mer had  now  touched  with  rich  colours.  The 
grass  in  many  of  the  hollows  was  almost  high 
enough  to  cut  with  a  scythe,  and  its  green  expanse 
was  patched  with  purple-flowered  weeds.  Mead- 
ow larks  bugled  from  the  grass;  flocks  of  wild 
doves  rose  on  whistling  wings  from  the  weed 
patches;  a  great  grey  jack-rabbit  with  jet-tipped 
ears  sprang  from  his  form  beside  the  road  and 
went  sailing  away  in  long  effortless  bounds,  like  a 
wind-blown  thing.  Miles  ahead  were  the  moun- 
tains— an  angular  mass  of  blue  distance  and  purple 
shadow,  rising  steep  five  thousand  feet  above  the 
mesa,  with  little  round  foothills  clustering  at  their 
feet.  A  brisk  cool  wind  fanned  his  face  and 
fluttered  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

But  with  the  rising  of  the  sun  the  wind  dropped, 
it  became  warm  and  he  felt  dull  and  sleepy. 
When  he  came  to  a  little  juniper  bush  which  spread 
its  bit  of  shadow  beside  the  road,  he  dis- 
mounted, pulled  the  saddle  off  his  sweating  mare, 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade  to  eat  his  lunch.  When 
he  had  finished  he  wished  for  a  drink  of  water  and 
philosophically  took  a  smoke  instead.  Then  he 
lay  down,  using  his  saddle  for  a  pillow,  puffing 
luxuriously  at  his  cigarette.  It  was  cool  in  his 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

bit  of  shadow,  though  all  the  world  about  him 
swam  in  waves  of  heat.  .  .  .  Cool  and  very  quiet. 
He  felt  drowsily  content.  This  sunny  desolation 
was  to  him  neither  lonely  nor  beautiful;  it  was 
just  his  own  country,  the  soil  from  which  he  had 
sprung.  .  .  .  Colours  and  outlines  blurred  as  his 
eyelids  grew  heavy.  Sleep  conquered  him  in  a  sud- 
den black  rush. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  he  awakened.  He 
had  meant  to  shoot  doves,  but  it  was  too  late  now 
to  do  any  hunting  if  he  was  to  reach  Archulera's 
place  before  dark.  He  saddled  his  mare  hurriedly 
and  went  forward  at  a  hard  gallop. 

Archulera's  place  was  typical  of  the  little  Mex- 
ican ranches  that  dot  the  Southwest  wherever  there 
is  water  enough  to  irrigate  a  few  acres.  The 
brown  block  of  adobe  house  stood  on  an  arid, 
rocky  hillside,  and  looked  like  a  part  of  it,  save 
for  the  white  door,  and  a  few  bright  scarlet  strings 
of  chile  hung  over  the  rafter  ends  to  dry.  Down 
in  the  arroyo  was  the  little  fenced  patch  where 
corn  and  chile  and  beans  were  raised,  and  behind 
the  house  was  a  round  goat  corral  of  wattled 
brush.  The  skyward  rocky  waste  of  the  mountain 
lifted  behind  the  house,  and  the  empty  reach  of 
the  mesa  lay  before — an  immense  and  arid  loneli- 
ness, now  softened  and  beautified  by  many 
shadows. 

Ramon  could  see  old  man  Archulera  far  up  the 

[43] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

mountainside,  rounding  up  his  goats  for  evening 
milking,  and  he  could  faintly  hear  the  bleating 
of  the  animals  and  the  old  man's  shouts  and 
imprecations.  He  whistled  loudly  through  his 
fingers  and  waved  his  hat. 

"Como  lo  va  primo!"  he  shouted,  and  he  saw 
Archulera  stop  and  look,  a*nd  heard  faintly  his 
answering,  "Como  la  va!" 

Soon  Archulera  4iad  his  goats  penned,  and 
Ramon  joined  him  while  he  milked  half  a  dozen 
ewes. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,"  Archulera  told  him,  "I 
haven't  seen  a  man  in  a  month  except  one  gringo 
that  said  he  was  a  prospector  and  stole  a  kid 
from  me.  ...  How  was  the  fair?" 

When  the  milking  was  over,  the  old  man  se- 
lected a  fat  kid,  caught  it  by  the  hind  leg  and 
dragged  it,  bleating  in  wild  terror,  to  a  gallows 
behind  the  house,  where  he  hung  it  up  and  skil- 
fully cut  its  throat,  leaving  it  to  bleat  and  bleed 
to  death  while  he  wiped  his  knife  and  went  on 
talking  volubly  with  his  guest.  The  occasional 
visits  of  Ramon  were  the  most  interesting  events 
in  his  life,  and  he  always  killed  a  kid  to  express 
his  appreciation.  Ramon  reciprocated  with  gifts 
of  tobacco  and  whisky.  They  were  great  friends. 

Archulera  was  a  short,  muscular  Mexican 
with  a  swarthy,  wrinkled  face,  broad  but  well-cut. 
His  big,  thin-lipped  mouth  showed  an  amazing 

[44] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

disarray  of  strong  yellow  teeth  when  he  smiled. 
His  little  black  eyes  were  shrewd  and  full  of 
•fire.  Although  he  was  sixty  years  old,  there 
was  little  grey  in  the  thick  black  hair  that  hung 
almost  to  his  shoulders.  He  wore  a  cheap  print 
shirt  and  a  faded  pair  of  overalls,  belted  at  the 
waist  with  a  strip  of  red  wool.  His  foot-gear 
consisted  of  the  uppers  of  a  pair  of  old  shoes  with 
soles  of  rawhide  sewed  on  moccasin-fashion. 

With  no  more  disguise  than  a  red  blanket  and 
a  grunt  Archulera  could  have  passed  for  an  Indian 
anywhere,  but  he  made  it  clear  to  all  that  he  re- 
garded himself  as  a  Spanish  gentleman.  He 
was  descended,  like  Ramon,  from  one  of  the  old 
families,  which  had  received  occasional  infusions 
of  native  blood.  There  was  probably  more  In- 
dian in  him  than  in  the  young  man,  but  the  chief 
difference  between  the  two  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  Archuleras  had  lost  most  of  their  wealth  a 
couple  of  generations  before,  so  that  the  old  man 
had  come  down  in  the  social  scale  to  the  condition 
of  an  ordinary  goat-herding  pelado.  There  are 
many  such  fallen  aristocrats  among  the  New 
Mexican  peasantry.  Most  of  them,  like  Archu- 
lera, are  distinguished  by  their  remarkably  choice 
and  fluent  use  of  the  Spanish  language,  and  by  the 
formal,  eighteenth-century  perfection  of  their 
manners,  which  contrast  strangely  with  the  bar- 
baric way  of  their  lives. 

[45] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

The  old  man  was  now  skinning  and  butchering 
the  goat  with  speed  and  skill.  Nothing  was 
wasted.  The  hide  was  flung  over  a  rafter  end  to 
dry.  The  head  was  washed  and  put  in  a  pan,  as 
were  the  smaller  entrails  with  bits  of  fat  clinging 
to  them,  and  the  liver  and  heart.  The  meat  was 
too  fresh  to  be  eaten  tonight,  but  these  things 
would  serve  well  enough  for  supper,  and  he  called 
to  his  daughter,  Catalina,  to  come  and  get  them. 

The  two  men  soon  joined  her  in  the  low,  white- 
washed room,  which  had  hard  mud  for  a  floor, 
and  was  furnished  with  a  bare  table  and  a  few 
chairs.  It  was  clean,  but  having  only  one  window 
and  that  always  closed,  it  had  a  pronounced  and 
individual  odour.  In  one  corner  was  a  little  fire- 
place, which  had  long  served  both  for  cooking 
and  to  furnish  heat,  but  as  a  concession  to 
modern  ideas  Archulera  had  lately  supplemented 
it  with  a  cheap  range  in  the  opposite  corner. 
There  Catalina  was  noisily  distilling  an  aroma 
from  goat  liver  and  onions.  The  entrails  she 
threaded  on  little  sticks  and  broiled  them  to  a 
delicate  brown  over  the  coals,  while  the  head  she 
placed  whole  in  the  oven.  Later  this  was  cracked 
open  and  the  brains  taken  out  with  a  spoon,  piping 
hot  and  very  savoury.  These  viands  were  supple- 
mented by  a  pan  of  large  pale  biscuits,  and  a  big 
tin  pot  of  coffee.  Catalina  served  the  two  men, 
saying  nothing,  not  even  raising  her  eyes,  while 

[46] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

— — > 

they  talked  and  paid  no  attention  to  her.  After 
eating  her  own  supper  and  washing  the  dishes  she 
disappeared  into  the  next  room. 

This  self-effacing  behaviour  on  the  part  of  the 
girl  accorded  with  the  highest  standards  of  Mex- 
ican etiquette,  and  showed  her  good  breeding. 
The  fact  that  old  Archulera  paid  no  more  atten- 
tion to  her  than  to  a  chair  did  not  indicate  that  he 
was  indifferent  to  her.  On  the  contrary,  as  Ra- 
mon had  long  ago  discovered,  she  was  one  of  the 
chief  concerns  of  his  life.  He  could  not  forget 
that  in  her  veins  flowed  some  of  the  very  best  of 
Spanish  blood,  and  he  considered  her  altogether 
too  good  for  the  common  sheep-herders  and  wood- 
cutters who  aspired  to  woo  her.  These  he  sum- 
marily warned  away,  and  brought  his  big  Win- 
chester rifle  into  the  argument  whenever  it  became 
warm.  When  he  left  the  girl  alone,  in  order  to 
guard  her  from  temptation  he  locked  her  into  the 
house  together  with  his  dog.  Catalina  had  led  a 
starved  and  isolated  existence. 

After  the  meal,  Archulera  became  reminiscent 
of  his  youth.  Some  thirty-five  years  before  he 
had  been  one  of  the  young  bloods  of  the  country, 
having  fought  against  the  Navajos  and  Apaches. 
He  had  made  a  reputation,  long  since  forgotten 
by  every  one  but  himself,  for  ruthless  courage 
and  straight  shooting,  and  many  a  man  had  he 
killed.  In  his  early  life,  as  he  had  often  told 

[47] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Ramon,  he  had  been  a  boon  companion  of  old 
Diego  Delcasar.  The  two  had  been  associated 
in  some  mining  venture,  and  Archulera  claimed 
that  Delcasar  had  cheated  him  out  of  his  share  of 
the  proceeds,  and  so  doomed  him  to  his  present 
life  of  poverty.  When  properly  stimulated  by 
food  and  drink  Archulera  never  failed  to  tell  this 
story,  and  to  express  his  hatred  for  the  man  who 
had  deprived  him  of  wealth  and  social  position. 
He  had  at  first  approached  the  subject  diffidently, 
not  knowing  how  Ramon  would  regard  an  attack 
on  the  good  name  of  his  uncle,  and  being  anxious 
not  to  offend  the  young  man.  But  finding  that 
Ramon  listened  tolerantly,  if  not  sympathetically, 
he  had  told  the  story  over  and  over,  each  time 
with  more  detail  and  more  abundant  and  pic- 
turesque denunciation  of  Diego  Delcasar,  but  with 
substantial  uniformity  as  to  the  facts.  As  he 
spoke  he  watched  the  face  of  Ramon  narrowly. 
Always  the  recital  ended  about  the  same  way. 

"You  are  not  like  your  uncle,"  he  assured  the 
young  man  earnestly,  in  his  formal  Spanish. 
"You  are  generous,  honourable.  When  your 
uncle  is  dead,  you  will  repay  me  for  the  wrongs 
that  I  have  suffered — no?" 

Ramon  would  always  laugh  at  this.  This  night, 
in  order  to  humour  the  old  man,  he  asked  him  how 
much  he  thought  the  Delcasar  estate  owed  him 
for  his  ancient  wrong. 

[48] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Five  thousand  dollars!"  Archulera  replied 
with  slow  emphasis.  He  probably  had  no  idea 
how  much  he  had  lost,  but  five  thousand  dollars 
was  his  conception  of  a  great  deal  of  money. 

Ramon  again  laughed  and  refused  to  commit 
himself.  He  certainly  had  no  idea  of  giving 
Archulera  five  thousand  dollars,  but  he  thought 
that  if  he  ever  did  come  into  his  own  he  would 
certainly  take  care  of  the  old  man — and  of 
Catalina. 

Soon  after  this  Archulera  went  off  to  sleep  in  the 
other  end  of  the  house,  after  trying  in  vain  to 
persuade  Ramon  to  occupy  his  bed.  Ramon,  as 
always,  refused.  He  would  sleep  on  a  pile  of 
sheep  skins  in  the  corner.  He  really  preferred 
this,  because  the  sheep  skins  were  both  cleaner  and 
softer  than  Archulera's  bed,  and  also  for  another 
reason. 

After  the  old  man  had  gone,  he  stretched  out 
on  his  pallet,  and  lit  another  cigarette.  He  could 
hear  his  host  thumping  around  for  a  few  minutes; 
then  it  was  very  still,  save  for  a  faint  moan  of 
wind  and  the  ticking  of  a  cheap  clock.  This 
late  still  hour  had  always  been  to  him  one  of  the 
most  delightful  parts  of  his  visits  to  Archulera's 
house.  For  some  reason  he  got  a  sense  of  peace 
and  freedom  out  of  this  far-away  quiet  place. 
And  he  knew  that  in  the  next  room  Catalina 
was  waiting  for  him — Catalina  with  the  strong, 

[49] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

, 

shapely  brown  body  which  her  formless  calico 
smock  concealed  by  day,  with  the  eager,  blind 
desire  bred  of  her  long  loneliness. 

During  his  first  few  visits  to  Archulera,  he 
had  scarcely  noticed  the  girl.  That  was  doubtless 
one  reason  why  the  old  man  had  welcomed  him. 
He  had  come  here  simply  to  go  deer-hunting  with 
Archulera,  to  eat  his  goat  meat  and  chile,  to  get 
away  from  the  annoyance  and  boredom  of  his  life 
in  town,  and  into  the  crude,  primitive  atmosphere 
which  he  had  loved  as  a  boy.  Catalina  had  been 
to  him  just  the  usual  slovenly  figure  of  a  Mexican 
woman,  a  self-effacing  drudge. 

He  had  felt  her  eyes  upon  him  several  times, 
had  not  looked  up  quickly  enough  to  meet  them, 
but  had  noticed  the  pretty  soft  curve  of  her  cheek. 
Then  one  night  when  he  was  stretched  out  on  his 
sheep  skins  after  Archulera  had  gone  to  bed,  the 
girl  came  into  the  room  and  began  pottering 
about  the  stove.  He  had  watched  her,  wondering 
what  she  was  doing.  As  she  knelt  on  the  floor 
he  noticed  the  curve  of  her  hip,  the  droop  of  her 
breast  against  her  frock,  the  surprising  round  per- 
fection of  her  outstretched  arm.  It  struck  him 
suddenly  that  she  was  a  woman  to  be  desired,  and 
one  who  might  be  taken  with  ease.  At  the  same 
time,  with  a  quickening  of  the  blood,  he  realized 
that  she  was  doing  nothing,  and  had  merely  come 
into  the  room  to  attract  his  attention.  Then  she 

[So] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

glanced  at  him,  daring  but  shy,  with  great  brown 
eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  a  gentle  animal.  When  she 
went  back  to  her  own  room  a  moment  later,  he 
confidently  followed. 

Ever  since  then  Catalina  had  been  the  chief  ob- 
ject of  his  week-end  journeys,   and  his  hunting 
largely  an  excuse.     She  had  completed  this  life 
which  he  led  in  the  mountains,  and  which  was  so 
pleasantly  different  from  his  life  in  town.     For 
a  part  of  the  week  he  was  a  poor,  young  lawyer, 
(watchful,  worried,  careful;  then  for  a  couple  of 
;  days  he  was  a  ragged  young  Mexican  and  the  lover 
\   /of  Catalina — a  different  man.     He  was  the  prod- 
!  uct  of  a   transition,   and  two  beings  warred  in 
1  him.     In  town  he  was  dominated  by  the  desire 
j  to  be  like  the  Americans,  and  to  gain  a  foothold 
in  their  life  of  law,  greed  and  respectability;  in 
the  mountains  he  relapsed  unconsciously  into  the 
easy  barbarous  ways  of  his  fathers.     Incidentally, 
this  periodical  change  of  personality  was  refresh- 
ing and  a  source  of  strength.     Catalina  had  been 
an  important  part  of  it.  ...     As  he  lay  now 
sleepily  puffing  a  last  cigarette,  he  wondered  why 
it  was  that  he  had  suddenly  lost  interest  in  the 
girl. 


[51] 


CHAPTER  VI 

At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  Ramon  was  hard 
at  work  in  the  office  of  James  B.  Green.  He 
worked  efficiently  and  with  zest  as  he  always  did 
after  one  of  his  trips  to  the  mountains.  He  got 
out  of  these  ventures  into  another  environment 
about  what  some  men  get  out  of  sprees — a  com- 
plete change  of  the  state  of  mind.  Archulera  and 
his  daughter  were  now  completely  forgotten,  and 
all  of  his  usual  worries  and  plans  were  creeping 
back  into  his  consciousness. 

But  this  day  he  had  a  feeling  of  pleasant  an- 
ticipation. At  first  he  could  not  account  for  it. 
And  then  he  remembered  the  girl — the  one  he  had 
seen  on  the  train  and  had  met  again  at  the 
Montezuma  ball.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
thought  of  her  had  been  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
all  the  time,  and  now  suddenly  came  forward, 
claiming  all  his  attention,  stirring  him  to  a  quick, 
unwonted  excitement.  She  had  said  he  might 
come  to  see  her.  He  was  to  'phone  first.  Maybe 
she  would  be  alone.  .  .  . 

In  this  latter  hope  he  was  disappointed.  She 
gave  him  the  appointment,  and  she  herself  ad- 
mitted him.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  such 

[52] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

a  dainty  bit  of  fragrant  perfection,  all  in  pink  that 
matched  the  pink  of  her  strange  little  crinkled 
mouth. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you  came,"  she  told  him. 
(Her  gladness  was  always  awful.)  She  led  him 
into  the  sitting  room  and  presented  him  to  the  tall 
emaciated  sick  man  and  the  large  placid  woman 
who  had  watched  over  her  so  carefully  on  the 
train. 

Gordon  Roth  greeted  him  with  a  cool  and 
formal  manner  into  which  he  evidently  tried  to 
infuse  something  of  cordiality,  as  though  a  desire 
to  be  just  and  broad-minded  struggled  with  preju- 
dice. Mrs.  Roth  looked  at  him  with  curiosity, 
and  gave  him  a  still  more  restrained  greeting. 
The  conversation  was  a  weak  and  painful  affair, 
kept  barely  alive,  now  by  one  and  now  by  another. 
The  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  disapproval.  If 
their  greetings  had  left  Ramon  in  any  doubt  as 
to  the  attitude  of  the  girl's  family  toward  him, 
that  doubt  was  removed  by  the  fact  that  neither 
Mrs.  Roth  nor  her  son  showed  any  intention  of 
leaving  the  room.  This  would  have  been  not  un- 
usual if  he  had  called  on  a  Mexican  girl,  especially 
if  she  belonged  to  one  of  the  more  old-fash- 
ioned families;  but  he  knew  that  American  girls 
are  left  alone  with  their  suitors  if  the  suitor  is  at 
all  welcome. 

He  knew  a  little  about  this  family  from  hear- 

[53] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

say.  They  came  from  one  of  the  larger  factory 
towns  in  northern  New  York,  and  were  supposed 
to  be  moderately  wealthy.  They  used  a  very 
broad  "a"  and  served  tea  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  Gordon  Roth  was  a  Harvard  grad- 
uate and  did  not  conceal  the  fact.  Neither  did 
he  conceal  his  hatred  for  this  sandy  little  western 
town,  where  ill-health  had  doomed  him  to  spend 
many  of  his  days  and  perhaps  to  end  them. 

The  girl  was  strangely  different  from  her 
mother  and  brother.  Whereas  their  expressions 
were  stiff  and  solemn,  her  eyes  showed  an  ir- 
repressible gleam  of  humour,  and  her  fascinating 
little  mouth  was  mobile  with  mirth.  She  fidgeted 
around  in  her  chair  a  good  deal,  as  a  child  does 
when  bored. 

Mrs.  Roth  decorously  turned  the  conversation 
toward  the  safe  and  reliable  subjects  of  literature 
and  art. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Maeterlinck,  Mr.  Del- 
casar?"  she  enquired  in  an  innocent  manner  that 
must  have  concealed  malice. 

"I  don't  know  him,"  Ramon  admitted,  "Who 
is  he?" 

Mrs.  Roth  permitted  herself  to  smile.  Gordon 
Roth  came  graciously  to  the  rescue. 

"Maeterlinck  is  a  great  Belgian  writer,"  he 
explained.  "We  are  all  very  much  interested  in 
him...." 

[54] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Julia  gave  a  little  flounce  in  her  chair,  and 
crossed  her  legs  with  a  defiant  look  at  her 
mother. 

"I'm  not  interested  in  him,"  she  announced 
with  decision.  "I  think  he's  a  bore.  Listen, 
Mr.  Delcasar.  You  know  Conny  Masters? 
Well,  he  was  telling  me  the  most  thrilling  tale 
the  other  day.  He  said  that  the  country  Mex- 
icans have  a  sort  of  secret  religious  fraternity 
that  most  of  the  men  belong  to,  and  that  they 
meet  every  Good  Friday  and  beat  themselves  with 
whips  and  sit  down  on  cactus  and  crucify  a  man  on 
a  cross  and  all  sorts  of  horrible  things  .  .  .  for 
penance  you  know,  just  like  the  monks  and  things 
in  the  Middle  Ages.  .  .  .  He  claims  he  saw 
them  once  and  that  they  had  blood  running  down 
to  their  heels.  Is  that  all  true?  I've  forgotten 
what  he  called  them.  .  .  ." 

Ramon  nodded. 

"Sure.  The  penltentes.  I've  seen  them  lots 
of  times." 

"O,  do  tell  us  about  them.  I  love  to  hear 
about  horrible  things." 

"Well,  I've  seen  lots  of  pemtente  processions, 
but  the  best  one  I  ever  saw  was  a  long  time  ago, 
when  I  was  a  little  kid.  There  are  not  so  many 
of  them  now,  and  they  don't  do  as  much  as  they 
used  to.  The  church  is  down  on  them,  you  know, 
and  they're  afraid.  Ten  years  ago  if  you  tried 

[55] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

to  look  at  them,  they  would  shoot  at  you,  but  now 
tourists  take  pictures  of  them." 

Gordon  Roth's  curiosity  had  been  aroused. 

"Tell  me,"he  broke  in.  "What  is  the  meaning 
of  this  thing?  How  did  it  get  started?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  Ramon  admitted. 
"My  grandfather  told  me  that  they  brought  it 
over  from  Spain  centuries  ago,  and  the  Indians 
here  had  a  sort  of  whipping  fraternity,  and  the 
two  got  mixed  up,  I  guess.  The  church  used  to 
tolerate  it;  it  was  a  regular  religious  festival. 
But  now  it's  outlawed.  They  still  have  a  lot  of 
political  power.  They  all  vote  the  same  way. 
One  man  that  was  elected  to  Congress — they  say 
that  the  penitente  stripes  on  his  back  carried  him 
there.  And  he  was  a  gringo  too.  But  I  don't 
know.  It  may  be  a  lie.  .  .  ." 

"But  tell  us  about  that  procession  you  saw  when 
you  were  a  little  boy,"  Julia  broke  in.  She  was 
leaning  forward  with  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and 
her  big  grey  eyes,  wide  with  interest,  fixed  upon 
his  face. 

"Well,  I  was  only  about  ten  years  old,  and  I 
was  riding  home  from  one  of  our  ranches  with  my 
father.  We  were  coming  through  Tijeras  canyon. 
It  was  March,  and  there  was  snow  on  the  ground 
in  patches,  and  the  mountains  were  cold  and  bare, 
and  I  remember  I  thought  I  was  going  to  freeze. 
Every  little  while  we  would  get  off  and  set  fire  to 

[56] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

a  tumble-weed  by  the  road,  and  warm  our  hands 
and  then  go  on  again.  .... 

"Anyway,  pretty  soon  I  heard  a  lot  of  men  sing- 
ing, all  together,  in  deep  voices,  and  the  noise 
echoed  around  the  canyon  and  sounded  awful  sol- 
emn. And  I  could  hear,  too,  the  slap  of  the  big 
wide  whips  coming  down  on  the  bare  backs,  wet 
with  blood,  like  slapping  a  man  with  a  wet  towel, 
only  louder.  I  didn't  know  what  it  was,  but  my 
father  did,  and  he  called  to  me  and  we  spurred 
our  horses  right  up  the  mountain,  and  hid  in  a 
clump  of  cedar  up  there.  Then  they  came  around 
a  bend  in  the  road,  and  I  began  to  cry  because 
they  were  all  covered  with  blood,  and  one  of  them 
fell  down ....  My  father  slapped  me  and  told 
me  to  shut  up,  or  they  would  come  and  shoot  us." 

"But  what  did  they  look  like?  What  were 
they  doing?"  Julia  demanded  frowning  at  him, 
impatient  with  his  rambling  narrative. 

"Well,  in  front  there  was  un  carreta  del  muerto. 
That  means  a  wagon  of  death.  I  don't  think  you 
would  ever  see  one  any  more.  It  was  just  an  or- 
dinary wagon  drawn  by  six  men,  naked  to  the 
waist  and  bleeding,  with  other  men  walking  beside 
them  and  beating  them  with  blacksnake  whips, 
just  like  they  were  mules.  In  the  wagon  they  had 
a  big  bed  of  stones,  covered  with  cactus,  and  a  man 
sitting  in  the  cactus,  who  was  supposed  to  rep- 
resent death.  And  then  they  had  a  Virgin  Mary, 

[57] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

too.  Four  penitentes  just  like  the  others,  with 
nothing  on  but  bloody  pants  and  black  bandages 
around  their  eyes,  carried  the  image  on  a  litter 
raised  up  over  their  heads,  and  they  had  swords 
fastened  to  their  elbows  and  stuck  between  their 
ribs,  so  that  if  they  let  down,  the  swords  would 
stick  into  their  hearts  and  kill  them.  And  behind 
that  came  the  Cristo — the  man  that  represented 
Jesus,  you  know,  dragging  a  big  cross.  Behind 
him  came  twenty  or  thirty  more  penitentes,  the 
most  I  ever  saw  at  once,  some  of  them  whipping 
themselves  with  big  broad  whips  made  out  of 
amole.  One  was  too  weak  to  whip  himself,  so 
two  others  walked  behind  him  and  whipped  him. 
Pretty  soon  he  fell  down  and  they  walked  over 
him  and  stepped  on  his  stomach.  .  .  ." 

"But  did  they  crucify  the  man,  the  whatever- 
you-call-him  ?"  Gordon  demanded. 

"The  Cristo.  Sure.  They  crucify  one  every 
year.  They  used  to  nail  him.  Now  they  gener- 
ally do  it  with  ropes,  but  that's  bad  enough,  be- 
cause it  makes  him  swell  up  and  turn  blue.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  he  dies." 

,  Julia  was  listening  with  lips  parted  and  eyes 
/wide,  horrified  and  yet  fascinated,  as  are  so  many 
women  by  what  is  cruel  and  bloody.  But  Gor- 
don, who  had  become  equally  interested,  was  cool 
and  inquisitive. 

"And  you  mean    to  tell  me  that  at  one  time 

[58] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

nearly  all  the — er — native  people  belonged  to  this 
barbaric  organization,  and  that  many  of  them  do 
yet?" 

"Nearly  all  the  common  pdadosf  Ramon 
hastened  to  explain.  "They  are  nearly  all  Indian 
or  part  Indian,  you  know.  Not  the  educated  peo- 
ple." Here  a  note  of  pride  came  into  his  voice. 
"We  are  descended  from  officers  of  the  Spanish 
army — the  men  who  conquered  this  country.  In 
the  old  days,  before  the  Americans  came,  all  these 
common  people  were  our  slaves." 

"I  see,"  said  Gordon  Roth  in  a  dry  and  judicial 
tone. 

The  penitentes,  as  a  subject  of  conversation, 
seemed  exhausted  for  the  time  being  and  Ramon 
had  given  up  all  hope  of  being  alone  with  Julia. 
He  rose  and  took  his  leave.  To  his  delight  Julia 
followed  him  to  the  door.  In  the  hall  she  gave 
him  her  hand  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  neither 
of  them  found  anything  to  say.  For  some  reason 
the  pressure  of  her  hand  and  the  look  of  her  eyes 
flustered  and  confused  him  more  than  had  all  the 
coldness  and  disapproval  of  her  family.  At 
last  he  said  good-bye  and  got  away,  with  his  hat 
on  wrong  side  before  and  the  blood  pounding  in 
his  temples. 


[59] 


CHAPTER  VII 

During  the  following  weeks  Ramon  worked 
even  less  than  was  his  custom.  He  also  neglected 
his  trips  to  the  mountains  and  most  of  his  other 
amusements.  They  seemed  to  have  lost  their 
interest  for  him.  But  he  was  a  regular  attend- 
ant upon  the  weekly  dances  which  were  held  at  the 
country  club,  and  to  which  he  had  never  gone 
before. 

The  country  club  was  a  recent  acquisition  of 
the  town,  backed  by  a  number  of  local  business 
men.  It  consisted  of  a  picturesque  little  frame 
lodge  far  out  upon  the  mesa,  and  a  nine-hole  golf 
course,  made  of  sand  and  haunted  by  lizzards  and 
rattlesnakes.  It  had  become  a  centre  of  local 
society,  although  there  was  a  more  exclusive 
organization  known  as  the  Forty  Club,  which  gave 
a  formal  ball  once  a  month.  Ramon  had 
never  been  invited  to  join  the  Forty  Club,  but  the 
political  importance  of  his  family  had  procured 
him  a  membership  in  the  country  club  and  it  served 
his  present  purpose  very  well,  for  he  found  Julia 
Roth  there  every  Saturday  night.  This  fact  was 
the  sole  reason  for  his  going.  His  dances  with 
her  were  now  the  one  thing  in  life  to  which  he 

[60] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

looked  forward  with  pleasure,  and  his  highest 
hope  was  that  he  might  be  alone  with  her. 

In  this  he  was  disappointed  for  a  long  time  be- 
cause Julia  was  the  belle  of  the  town.  Her 
dainty,  provocative  presence  seemed  always  to  be 
the  centre  of  the  gathering.  Women  envied  her 
and  studied  her  frocks,  which  were  easily  the 
most  stylish  in  town.  Men  flocked  about  her  and 
guffawed  at  her  elfin  stabs  of  humour.  Her 
program  was  always  crowded  with  names,  and 
when  she  went  for  a  stroll  between  dances  she 
was  generally  accompanied  by  at  least  three  men 
of  whom  Ramon  was  often  one.  And  while  the 
others  made  her  laugh  at  their  jokes  or  thrilled 
her  with  accounts  of  their  adventures,  he  was 
always  silent  and  worried — an  utter  bore,  he 
thought. 

This  girl  was  a  new  experience  to  him.  With 
the  egotism  of  twenty-four,  he  had  regarded  him- 
self as  a  finished  man  of  the  world,  especially  with 
regard  to  women.  They  had  always  liked  him. 
He  was  good  to  look  at  and  his  silent,  self-pos- 
sessed manner  touched  the  feminine  imagination. 
He  had  had  his  share  of  the  amorous  adventures 
that  come  to  most  men,  and  his  attitude  toward 
women  had  changed  from  the  hesitancy  of  adoles- 
ence  to  the  purposeful,  confident  and  somewhat 
selfish  attitude  of  the  male  accustomed  to  easy 
conquest. 

[61] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

, — ^ 

This  girl,  by  a  smile  and  touch  of  her  hand, 
seemed  to  have  changed  him.  She  filled  him  with 
a  mighty  yearning.  He  desired  her,  and  yet  there 
was  a  puzzling  element  in  his  feeling  that  seemed 
to  transcend  desire.  And  he  was  utterly  without 
his  usual  confidence  and  purpose.  He  had  reason 
enough  to  doubt  his  success,  but  aside  from  that 
she  loomed  in  his  imagination  as  something 
high  and  unattainable.  He  had  no  plan.  His 
strength  seemed  to  have  oozed  out  of  him.  He 
pursued  her  persistently  enough — in  fact  too 
persistently — but  he  did  it  because  he  could  not 
help  it. 

The  longer  he  followed  in  her  wake,  the  more 
marked  his  weakness  became.  When  he  ap- 
proached her  to  claim  a  dance  he  was  often  aware 
of  a  faint  tremble  in  his  knees,  and  was  embar- 
rassed by  the  fact  that  the  palms  of  his  hands  were 
sweating.  He  felt  that  he  was  a  fool  and  swore 
at  himself.  And  he  was  wholly  unable  to  believe 
that  he  was  making  any  impression  upon  her. 
True,  she  was  quite  willing  to  flirt  with  him. 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  an  arch,  almost  enquir- 
ing glance  when  he  came  to  claim  her  for  a  dance, 
but  he  seldom  found  much  to  say  at  such  times, 
being  too  wholly  absorbed  in  the  sacred  occupa- 
tion of  dancing  with  her.  And  it  seemed  to  him 
that  she  flirted  with  every  one  else,  too.  This 
did  not  in  the  least  mitigate  his  devotion,  but  it 

[62] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

made  him  acutely  uncomfortable  to  watch  her 
dance  with  other  men,  and  especially  with  Conny 
Masters. 

Masters  was  the  son  of  a  man  who  had  made 
a  moderate  fortune  in  the  tin-plate  business.  He 
had  come  West  with  his  mother  who  had  a  weak 
throat,  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  country,  and 
scandalized  his  family  by  resolutely  refusing  to 
go  back  to  Indiana  and  tin  cans.  He  spent  most 
of  his  time  riding  about  the  country,  equipped  with 
a  note  book  and  a  camera,  studying  the  Mexicans 
and  Indians,  and  taking  pictures  of  the  scenery. 
He  said  that  he  was  going  to  make  a  literary 
career,  but  the  net  product  of  his  effort  for  two 
years  had  been  a  few  sonnets  of  lofty  tone  but 
vague  meaning,  and  a  great  many  photographs, 
mostly  of  sunsets. 

Conny  was  not  a  definite  success  as  a  writer, 
but  he  was  unquestionably  a  gifted  talker,  and 
he  knew  the  country  better  than  did  most  of  the 
natives.  He  made  real  to  Julia  the  romance 
which  she  craved  to  find  in  the  West.  And  her 
watchful  and  suspicious  family  seemed  to  tolerate 
if  not  to  welcome  him.  Ramon  knew  that  he 
went  to  the  Roth's  regularly.  He  began  to  feel 
something  like  hatred  for  Conny  whom  he  had 
formerly  liked. 

This  feeling  was  deepened  by  the  fact  that 
Conny  seemed  to  be  specially  bent  on  defeating 

[63] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Ramon's  ambition  to  be  alone  with  the  girl.  If 
no  one  else  joined  them  at  the  end  of  a  dance, 
Conny  was  almost  sure  to  do  so,  and  to  occupy 
the  intermission  with  one  of  his  ever-ready  mono- 
logues, while  Ramon  sat  silent  and  angry,  wonder- 
ing what  Julia  saw  to  admire  in  this  windy  fool, 
and  occasionally  daring  to  wonder  whether  she 
really  saw  anything  in  him  after  all. 

But  a  sufficiently  devoted  lover  is  seldom  wholly 
without  a  reward.  There  came  an  evening  when 
Ramon  found  himself  alone  with  her.  And  he 
was  aware  with  a  thrill  that  she  had  evaded  not 
only  Conny,  but  two  other  men.  Her  smile  was 
friendly  and  encouraging,  too,  and  yet  he  could 
not  find  anything  to  say  which  in  the  least  expressed 
his  feelings. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  in  this  country  long?" 
he  began.  The  question  sounded  supremely 
casual,  but  it  meant  a  great  deal  to  him.  He 
was  haunted  by  a  fear  that  she  would  depart 
suddenly,  and  he  would  never  see  her  again.  She 
smiled  and  looked  away  for  a  moment  before  re- 
plying, as  though  perhaps  this  was  not  exactly 
what  she  had  expected  him  to  say. 

"I  don't  know.  Gordon  wants  mother  and 
me  to  go  back  East  this  fall,  but  I  don't  want  to  go 
and  mother  doesn't  want  to  leave  Gordon 
alone....  We  haven't  decided.  Maybe  I 
won't  go  till  next  year." 

[64] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"I  suppose  you'll  go  to  college  won't  you?" 

uNo;  I  wanted  to  go  to  Vassar  and  then  study 
art,  but  mother  says  college  spoils  a  girl  for 
society.  She  thinks  the  way  the  Vassar  girls 
walk  is  perfectly  dreadful.  I  offered  to  go  right 
on  walking  the  same  way,  but  she  said  anyway 
college  makes  girls  so  frightfully  broad-mind- 
ed. .  .  ." 

Ramon  laughed. 

"What  will  you  do  then?" 

'Til  come  out." 

"Out  of  what?" 

"Make  my  debut,  don't  you  know?" 

"O,  yes." 

"In  New  York.  I  have  an  aunt  there.  She 
knows  all  the  best  people,  mother  says." 

"What  happens  after  you  come  out?" 

"You  get  married  if  anybody  will  have  you. 
If  not,  you  sort  of  fade  away  and  finally  go  into 
uplift  work  about  your  fourth  season." 

"But  of  course,  you'll  get  married.  I  bet 
you'll  marry  a  millionaire." 

"I  don't  know.  Mother  wants  me  to  marry  a 
broker.  She  says  the  big  financial  houses  in  New 
York  are  conducted  by  the  very  best  people. 
But  Gordon  thinks  I  ought  to  marry  a  profes- 
sional man — a  doctor  or  something.  He  thinks 
brokers  are  vulgar.  He  says  money  isn't  every- 
thing." 

[65] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"I  haven't  a  thought  to  my  name.  All  my 
thinking  has  been  done  for  me  since  infancy.  I 
don't  know  what  I  want,  but  I'm  pretty  sure  I 
wouldn't  get  it  if  I  did.  .  .  .  Come  on.  They've 
been  dancing  for  ten  minutes.  If  we  stay  here 
any  longer  it'll  be  a  scandal." 

She  rose  and  started  for  the  hall.  He  sud- 
denly realized  that  his  long-sought  opportunity 
was  slipping  away  from  him.  He  caught  her  by 
the  hand. 

"Don't  go,  please.  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing." 

She  met  his  hand  with  a  fair  grip,  and  pulled 
him  after  her  with  a  laugh. 

"Some  other  time,"  she  promised. 


[66] 


CHAPTER     VIII. 

In  most  of  their  social  diversions  the  town  folk 
tended  always  more  and  more  to  ape  the  ways  of 
the  East.  Local  colour,  they  thought,  was  all 
right  in  its  place,  which  was  a  curio  store  or  a 
museum,  but  they  desired  their  town  to  be  modern 
and  citified,  so  that  the  wealthy  eastern  health- 
seeker  would  find  it  a  congenial  home.  The 
scenery  and  the  historic  past  were  recognized  as 
assets,  but  they  should  be  the  background  for  a 
life  of  "culture,  refinement  and  modern  conven- 
ience" as  the  president  of  the  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce was  fond  of  saying. 

Hence  the  riding  parties  and  picnics  of  a  few 
years  before  had  given  way  to  aggressively  formal 
balls  and  receptions;  but  one  form  of  entertain- 
ment that  was  indigenous  had  survived.  This 
was  known  as  a  "mesa  supper."  It  might  take 
place  anywhere  in  the  surrounding  wilderness  of 
mountain  and  desert.  Several  auto-loads  of 
young  folk  would  motor  out,  suitably  chaperoned 
and  laden  with  provisions.  Beside  some  water 
hole  or  mountain  stream  fires  would  be  built, 
steaks  broiled  and  coffee  brewed.  Afterward 

[67] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

there  would  be  singing  and  story-telling  about  the 
fire,  and  romantic  strolls  by  couples. 

It  was  one  of  these  expeditions  that  furnished 
Ramon  with  his  second  opportunity  in  three  weeks 
to  be  alone  with  Julia  Roth.  The  party  had  jour- 
neyed to  Los  Ojuellos,  where  a  spring  of  clear 
water  bubbled  up  in  the  centre  of  the  mesa.  A 
grove  of  cottonwood  trees  shadowed  the  place, 
and  there  was  an  ancient  adobe  ruin  which  looked 
especially  effective  by  moonlight. 

The  persistent  Conny  Masters  was  a  member 
of  the  party,  but  he  was  handicapped  by  the  fact 
that  he  knew  more  about  camp  cookery  than  any- 
one else  present.     He  had  made  a  special  study 
1  of   Mexican    dishes   and  had  written    an   article 
about  them  which  had  been  rejected  by  no  less  than 
j  twenty-seven   magazines.     He  made   a   specialty 
I  of  the  enchilada,  which  is  a  delightful  concoction 
i  of  corn  meal,  eggs  and  chile,  and  he  had  perfected 
a  recipe  of  his  own  for  this  dish  which  he  had 
named  the  'Conny  Masters  junior. 

As  soon  as  the  baskets  were  unpacked  and  the 
chaperones  were  safely  anchored  on  rugs  and 
blankets  with  their  backs  against  trees,  there  was 
a  general  demand,  strongly  backed  by  Ramon, 
that  Conny  should  cook  supper.  He  was  soon 
absorbed  in  the  process,  volubly  explaining  every 
step,  while  the  others  gathered  about  him  and  of- 

[68] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

fered  encouragement  and  humorous  suggestion. 
But  there  was  soon  a  gradual  dispersion  of  the 
group,  some  going  for  wood  and  some  for  water, 
and  others  on  errands  unstated. 

Ramon  found  himself  strolling  under  the 
cottonwoods  with  Julia.  Neither  of  them  had 
said  anything.  It  was  almost  as  though  the  tryst 
had  been  agreed  upon  before.  She  picked  her 
way  slowly  among  the  tussocks  of  dried  grass,  her 
skirt  daintily  kilted.  A  faint  but  potent  perfume 
from  her  hair  and  dress  blew  over  him.  He 
ventured  to  support  her  elbow  with  a  reverent 
touch.  Never  had  she  seemed  more  desirable, 
nor  yet,  for  some  reason,  more  remote. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the 
great  desert  stars. 

"Isn't  it  big  and  beautiful  ?"  she  demanded. 
"And  doesn't  it  make  you  feel  free?  It's  never 
like  this  at  home,  somehow." 

"What  is  it  like  where  you  live?"  he  enquired. 
He  had  a  persistent  desire  to  see  into  her  life  and 
understand  it,  but  everything  she  told  him  only 
made  her  more  than  ever  to  him  a  being  of  mys- 
terious origin  and  destiny. 

"It's  a  funny  little  New  York  factory  city  with 
very  staid  ways,"  she  said.  "You  go  to  a  dance 
at  the  country  club  every  Saturday  night  and  to 
tea  parties  and  things  in  between.  You  fight, 

[69] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

bleed  and  die  for  your  social  position  and 
once  in  a  while  you  stop  and  wonder  why.  .  .  . 
It's  a  bore.  You  can  see  yourself  going  on  doing 
the  same  thing  till  the  day  of  your  death.  .  .  ." 

Her  discontent  with  things  as  they  are  found 
ready  sympathy. 

"That's  just  the  way  it  is  here,"  he  said  with 
conviction.  "You  can't  see  anything  ahead." 

uOh,  I  don't  think  its  the  same  here  at  all,"  she 
protested.  "This  country's  so  big  and  interest- 
ing. It's  different." 

"Tell  me  how,"  he  demanded.  "I  haven't  seen 
anything  interesting  here  since  I  got  back, — except 
you." 

She  ignored  the  exception. 

"I  can't  express  it  exactly.  The  people  here  are 
just  like  people  everywhere  else — 'most  of  them. 
But  the  country  looks  so  big  and  unoccupied.  And 
blue  mountains  are  so  alluring.  There  might  be 
anything  beyond  them  .  .  .  adventures,  opportu- 
nities. .  .  ." 

This  idea  was  a  bit  too  rarefied  for  Ramon,  but 
he  could  agree  about  the  mountains. 

"It's  a  fine  country,"  he  assented.  "For  those 
that  own  it." 

"It's  just  a  feeling  I  have  about  it,"  she  went 
on,  trying  to  express  her  own  half-formulated 
idea.  "But  then  I  have  that  feeling  about  life  in 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

general,  and  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  in 
it.  I  mean  the  feeling  that  it's  full  of  thrilling 
things,  but  somehow  you  miss  them  all." 

"I  have  felt  something  like  that,"  he  admitted. 
"But  I  never  could  say  it." 

This  discovery  of  an  idea  in  common  seemed 
somehow  to  bring  them  closer  together.  His 
hand  tightened  gently  about  her  arm;  almost  un- 
consciously he  drew  her  toward  him.  But  she 
seemed  to  be  all  absorbed  in  the  discussion. 

"You  have  no  right  to  complain,"  she  told  him. 
"A  man  can  do  something  about  it." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  speaking  a  reflection  without 
stopping  to  put  it  in  conventional  language.  "It 
must  be  hell  to  be  a  woman  .  .  .  excuse  me  .  .  . 
I  mean.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  apologize.  It  is — just  that.  A  man 
at  least  has  a  fighting  chance  to  escape  boredom. 
But  they  won't  even  let  a  woman  fight.  I  wish 
I  were  a  man." 

"Well;  I  don't,"  he  asserted  with  warmth,  un- 
consciously tightening  his  hold  upon  her  arm.  "I 
can  't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  you're  a  wo- 


man." 


"Oh,  are  you?"  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
challenging,  provocative  eyes. 

For  an  instant  a  kiss  was  imminent.  It  hovered 
between  them  like  an  invisible  fairy  presence 

[71] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

of  which  they  both  were  sweetly  aware,  and  no 
one  else. 

"Hey  there!  all  you  spooners!"  came  a  jovial 
and  irreverent  voice  from  the  vicinity  of  the  camp 
fire.  "Come  and  eat." 

The  moment  was  lost;  the  fairy  presence  gone. 
She  turned  with  a  little  laugh,  and  they  went  in 
silence  back  to  the  fire.  They  were  last  to  enter 
the  circle  of  ruddy  light,  and  all  eyes  were  upon 
them.  She  was  pink  and  self-conscious,  looking 
at  her  feet  and  picking  her  way  with  exaggerated 
care.  He  was  proud  and  elated.  This,  he 
knew,  would  couple  their  names  in  gossip,  would 
make  her  partly  his. 


[72] 


CHAPTER  IX 

He  wanted  to  call  on  her  again,  but  he  felt  that 
he  had  been  insulted  and  rejected  by  the  Roths, 
and  his  pride  fought  against  it.  Unable  to  think 
for  long  of  anything  but  Julia  he  fell  into  the 
habit  of  walking  by  her  house  at  night,  looking  at 
its  lighted  windows  and  wondering  what  she  was 
doing.  Often  he  could  see  the  moving  figures 
and  hear  the  laughter  of  some  gay  group  about 
her,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  go  in  and 
face  the  chilly  disapproval  of  her  family.  At 
such  times  he  felt  an  utter  outcast,  and  sounded 
depths  of  misery  he  had  never  known  before. 
For  this  was  his  first  real  love,  and  he  loved  in 
the  helpless,  desperate  way  of  the  Latin,  without 
calculation  or  humour. 

One  evening  there  was  a  gathering  on  the 
porch  of  the  Roth  house.  She  was  there,  sitting 
on  the  steps  with  three  men  about  her.  He 
could  see  the  white  blur  of  her  frock  and  hear  her 
funny  little  bubbling  laugh  above  the  deeper 
voices  of  the  men.  Having  ascertained  that 
neither  Gordon  Roth  nor  his  mother  was  there, 
he  summoned  his  courage  and  went  in.  She 

[73] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

could  not  see  who  he  was  until  he  stood  almost 
over  her. 

"O,  it's  you !  I'm  awfully  glad.  .  .  ."  Their 
hands  met  and  clung  for  a  moment  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  sat  down  on  the  steps  at  her  feet,  and 
the  conversation  moved  on  without  any  assistance 
from  him.  He  was  now  just  as  happy  as  he  had 
been  miserable  a  few  minutes  before. 

Presently  two  of  the  other  men  went  away,  but 
the  third,  who  was  Conny  Masters,  stayed.  He 
talked  volubly  as  ever,  telling  wonderful  and 
sometimes  incredible  stories  of  things  he  had  seen 
and  done  in  his  wanderings.  Ramon  said  noth- 
ing. Julia  responded  less  and  less.  Once  she 
moved  to  drop  the  wrap  from  about  her  should- 
ers, and  the  alert  Conny  hastened  to  assist  her. 
Ramon  watched  and  envied  with  a  thumping 
heart  as  he  saw  the  gleam  of  her  bare  white 
shoulders,  and  realized  that  his  rival  might  have 
touched  them. 

Conny  went  on  talking  for  half  an  hour  with 
astonishing  endurance  and  resourcefulness,  but  it 
became  always  more  apparent  that  he  was  not 
captivating  his  audience.  He  had  to  laugh  at  his 
own  humour  and  expatiate  on  his  own  thrills. 
Finally  a  silence  fell  upon  the  three,  broken  only 
by  occasional  commonplace  remarks. 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  time  to  drift,"  Conny  ob- 
served at  last,  looking  cautiously  at  his  watch. 

[74] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

This  suggestion  was  neither  seconded  by 
Ramon  nor  opposed  by  Julia.  The  silence  liter- 
ally pushed  Conny  to  his  feet. 

"Going,  Ramon?  No?  Well,  Good  night." 
And  he  retired  whistling  in  a  way  which  showed 
his  irritation  more  plainly  than  if  he  had  sworn. 

The  two  impolite  ones  sat  silent  for  a  long 
moment.  Ramon  was  trying  to  think  of  what  he 
wanted  to  say  and  how  he  wanted  to  say  it.  Final- 
ly without  looking  at  her  he  said  in  a  low  husky 
voice. 

"You  know  ...  I  love  you." 

There  was  more  silence.  At  last  he  looked  up 
and  met  her  eyes.  They  were  serious  for  the 
first  time  in  his  experience,  and  so  was  her  usually 
mocking  little  mouth.  Her  face  was  trans- 
formed and  dignified.  More  than  ever  she 
seemed  a  strange,  high  being.  And  yet  he  knew 
that  now  she  was  within  his  reach.  .  .  .  That  he 
could  kiss  her  lips  .  .  .  incredible.  .  .  .  And  yet 
he  did,  and  the  kiss  poured  flame  over  them  and 
welded  them  into  each  others'  arms. 

They  heard  Gordon  Roth  in  the  house  cough- 
ing, the  cough  coming  closer. 

She  pushed  him  gently  away. 

"Go  now,"  she  whispered.  "I  love  you... 
Ramon." 


[75] 


CHAPTER  X 

His  conquest  was  far  from  giving  him  peace. 
Her  kiss  had  transformed  his  high  vague  yearn- 
ing into  hot  relentless  desire.  He  wanted  her. 
That  became  the  one  clear  thing  in  life  to  him. 
Reflections  and  doubts  were  alien  to  his  young 
and  primitive  spirit.  He  did  not  try  to  look  far 
into  the  future.  He  only  knew  that  to  have  her 
would  be  delight  almost  unimaginable  and  to  lose 
her  would  be  to  lose  everything. 

His  attitude  toward  her  changed.  He  claimed 
her  more  and  more  at  dances.  She  did  not 
want  to  dance  with  him  so  much  because  "people 
would  talk,"  but  his  will  was  harder  than  hers 
and  to  a  great  extent  he  had  his  way.  He  now 
called  on  her  regularly  too.  He  knew  that  she 
had  fought  hard  for  him  against  her  family,  and 
had  won  the  privilege  for  him  of  calling  "not  too 
often." 

"I  Ve  lied  for  you  frightfully,"  she  confessed. 
"I  told  them  I  didn't  really  care  for  you  in  the 
least,  but  I  want  to  see  you  because  you  can  tell 
such  wonderful  things  about  the  country.  So  talk 
about  the  country  whenever  they're  listening. 
And  don  't  look  at  me  the  way  you  do.  .  ." 

[76] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

) 

Mother  and  brother  were  alert  and  suspicious 
despite  her  assurance,  and  manoeuvred  with  cool 
skill  to  keep  the  pair  from  being  alone.  Only 
rarely  did  he  get  the  chance  to  kiss  her — once 
when  her  brother,  who  was  standing  guard  over 
the  family  treasure,  was  seized  with  a  fit  of 
coughing  and  had  to  leave  the  room,  and  again 
when  her  mother  was  called  to  the  telephone.  At 
such  times  she  shrank  away  from  him  at  first  as 
though  frightened  by  the  intensity  of  the  emotion 
she  had  created,  but  she  never  resisted.  To  him 
these  brief  and  stolen  embraces  were  almost  in- 
tolerably sweet,  like  insufficient  sips  of  water  to 
a  man  burned  up  with  thirst. 

She  puzzled  him  as  much  as  ever.  When  he 
was  with  her  he  felt  as  sure  of  her  love  as  of  his 
own  existence.  And  yet  she  often  sought  to 
elude  him.  When  he  called  up  for  engagements 
she  objected  and  put  him  off.  And  she  surrounded 
herself  with  other  men  as  much  as  ever,  and 
flirted  gracefully  with  all  of  them,  so  that  he  was 
always  feeling  the  sharp  physical  pangs  of 
jealousy.  Sometimes  he  felt  egotistically  sure 
that  she  was  merely  trying  by  these  devices  to 
provoke  his  desire  the  more,  but  at  other  times 
he  thought  her  voice  over  the  phone  sounded 
doubtful  and  afraid,  and  he  became  wildly  eager 
to  get  to  her  and  make  sure  of  her  again. 

Just  as  her  kiss  had  crystallized  his  feeling  for 

[77] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

her  into  driving  desire,  so  it  had  focussed  and  in- 
tensified his  discontent.  Before  he  had  been 
more  or  less  resigned  to  wait  for  his  fortune  and 
the  power  he  meant  to  make  of  it;  now  it  seemed 
to  him  that  unless  he  could  achieve  these  things 
at  once,  they  would  never  mean  anything  to  him. 
For  money  was  the  one  thing  that  would  give  him 
even  a  chance  to  win  her.  It  was  obviously  use- 
less to  ask  her  to  marry  him  poor.  He  would 
have  nothing  to  bring  against  the  certain  opposi- 
tion of  her  family.  He  could  not  run  away  with 
her.  And  indeed  he  was  altogether  too  poor  to 
support  a  wife  if  he  had  one,  least  of  all  a  wife 
who  had  been  carefully  groomed  and  trained  to 
capture  a  fortune. 

There  was  only  one  way.  If  he  could  go  to 
her  strong  and  rich,  he  felt  sure  that  he  could 
persuade  her  to  go  away  with  him,  for  he  knew 
that  she  belonged  to  him  when  he  was  with  her. 
He  pictured  himself  going  to  her  in  a  great  motor 
car.  Such  a  car  had  always  been  in  his  imagin- 
ation the  symbol  of  material  strength.  He  felt 
sure  he  could  destroy  her  doubts  and  hesitations. 
He  would  carry  her  away  and  she  would  be  all 
and  irrevocably  his  before  any  one  could  interfere 
or  object. 

This  dream  filled  and  tortured  his  imagination. 
Its  realization  would  mean  not  only  fulfilment 
of  his  desire,  but  also  revenge  upon  the  Roths  for 

[78] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  humiliations  they  had  made  him  feel.  It 
pushed  everything  else  out  of  his  mind — all 
consideration  of  other  and  possibly  more  feasible 
methods  of  pushing  his  suit.  He  came  of  a  race 
of  men  who  had  dared  and  dominated,  who  had 
loved  and  fought,  but  had  never  learned  how  to 
work  or  to  endure. 

When  he  gave  himself  up  to  his  dream  he  was 
almost  elated,  but  when  he  came  to  contemplate 
his  actual  circumstances,  he  fell  into  depths  of 
discouragement  and  melancholy.  His  uncle  stood 
like  a  rock  between  him  and  his  desire.  He 
thought  of  trying  to  borrow  a  few  thousand  dollars 
from  old  Diego,  and  of  leaving  the  future  to  luck, 
but  he  was  too  intelligent  long  to  entertain  such  a 
scheme.  The  Don  would  likely  have  provided 
him  with  the  money,  and  he  would  have  done  it 
by  hypothecating  more  of  the  Delcasar  lands  to 
MacDougall.  Then  Ramon  would  have  had  to 
borrow  more,  and  so  on,  until  the  lands  upon  which 
all  his  hopes  and  dreams  were  based  had  passed 
forever  out  of  his  reach. 

The  thing  seemed  hopeless,  for  Don  Diego 
might  well  live  for  many  years.  And  yet  Ramon 
did  not  give  up  hope.  He  was  worried,  desperate 
and  bitter,  but  not  beaten.  He  had  still  that 
illogical  faith  in  his  own  destiny  which  is  the  gift 
that  makes  men  of  action. 

At  this  time  he  heard  particularly  disquieting 

[79] 


The  Blood  of  Conquerors 

things  about  his  uncle.  Don  Diego  was  reputed 
to  be  spending  unusually  large  sums  of  money. 
As  he  generally  had  not  much  ready  cash,  this 
must  mean  either  that  he  had  sold  land  or  that  he 
had  borrowed  from  MacDougall,  in  which  case 
the  land  had  doubtless  been  given  as  security. 
Once  it  was  converted  into  cash  in  the  hands  of 
Diego,  Ramon  knew  that  his  prospective  fortune 
would  swiftly  vanish.  He  determined  to  watch 
the  old  man  closely. 

He  learned  that  Don  Diego  was  playing  poker 
every  night  in  the  back  room  of  the  White  Camel 
pool  hall.  Gambling  was  supposed  to  be  prohib- 
ited in  the  town,  but  this  sanctum  was  regularly 
the  scene  for  a  game,  which  had  the  reputation  of 
causing  more  money  to  change  hands  than  any 
other  in  the  southwest.  Ramon  hung  about  the 
White  Camel  evening  after  evening,  trying  to 
learn  how  much  his  uncle  was  losing.  He  would 
have  liked  to  go  and  stand  behind  his  chair  and 
watch  the  game,  but  both  etiquette  and  pride 
prevented  him  doing  this.  On  two  nights  his 
uncle  came  out  surrounded  by  a  laughing  crowd, 
a  little  bit  tipsy,  and  was  hurried  into  a  cab. 
Ramon  had  no  chance  to  speak  either  to  him  or  to 
any  one  else  who  had  been  in  the  game,  But  the 
third  night  he  came  out  alone,  heavy  with  liquor, 
talking  to  himself.  The  other  players  had  already 
gone  out,  laughing.  The  place  was  nearly 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

deserted.  The  Don  suddenly  caught  sight  of 
Ramon  and  came  to  him,  laying  heavy  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  looking  at  him  with  bleary,  tear- 
filled  eyes. 

"My  boy,  my  nephew,"  he  exclaimed  in  Spanish, 
his  voice  shaking  with  boozy  emotion,  "I  am  glad 
you  are  here.  Come  I  must  talk  to  you."  And 
steadied  by  Ramon  he  led  the  way  to  a  bench  in  a 
corner.  Here  his  manner  suddenly  changed.  He 
threw  back  his  head  haughtily  and  slapped  his 
knee. 

"I  have  lost  five  hundred  dollars  tonight,"  he 
announced  proudly.  "What  do  I  care?  I  am  a 
rich  man.  I  have  lost  a  thousand  dollars  in  the 
last  three  nights.  That  is  nothing.  I  am  rich." 

He  thumped  his  chest,  looking  around  defiantly. 
Then  he  leaned  forward  in  a  confidential  manner 
and  lowered  his  voice. 

"But  these  gringos — they  have  gone  away  and 
left  me.  You  saw  them?  Cabrones!  They 
have  got  my  money.  That  is  all  they  want. 
My  boy,  all  gringos  are  alike.  They  want 
nothing  but  money.  They  can  hear  the  rattle  of 
a  peso  as  far  as  a  burro  can  smell  a  bear.  They 
are  mean,  stingy !  Ah,  my  boy !  It  is  not  now  as 
it  was  in  the  old  days.  Then  money  counted  for 
nothing !  Then  a  man  could  throw  away  his  last 
dollar  and  there  were  always  friends  to  give  him 
more.  But  now  your  dollars  are  your  only  true 

[81] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

friends,  and  when  you  have  lost  them,  you  are 
alone  indeed.  Ah,  my  boy !  The  old  days  were 
the  best!"  The  old  Don  bent  his  head  over  his 
hands  and  wept. 

Ramon  looked  at  him  with  a  mighty  disgust  and 
with  a  resentment  that  filled  his  throat  and  made 
his  head  hot.  He  had  never  before  realized  how 
much  broken  by  age  and  drink  his  uncle  was. 
Before,  he  had  suspected  and  feared  that  Don 
Diego  was  wasting  his  property;  now  he  knew  it. 

The  Don  presently  looked  up  again  with  tear- 
filled  eyes,  and  went  on  talking,  holding  Ramon 
by  the  lapel  of  the  coat  in  a  heavy  tremulous  grip. 
He  talked  for  almost  an  hour,  his  senile  mind 
wandering  aimlessly  through  the  scenes  of  his 
long  and  picturesque  career.  He  would  tell  tales 
of  his  loves  and  battles  of  fifty  years  ago — tales 
full  of  lust  and  greed  and  excitement.  He  would 
come  back  to  his  immediate  troubles  and  curse  the 
gringos  again  for  a  pack  of  miserable  dollar- 
mongers,  who  knew  not  the  meaning  of  friend- 
ship. And  again  his  mind  would  leap  back 
irrelevantly  to  some  woman  he  had  loved  or  some 
man  he  had  killed  in  the  spacious  days  where  his 
imagination  dwelt.  Ramon  listened  eagerly, 
hoping  to  learn  something  definite  about  the 
Don's  dealings  with  MacDougall,  but  the  old  man 
never  touched  upon  this.  He  did  tell  one  story  to 
which  Ramon  listened  with  interest.  He  told 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

how,  twenty-five  years  before,  he  and  another  man 
named  Cristobal  Archulera  had  found  a  silver 
mine  in  the  Guadelupe  Mountains,  and  how  he 
had  cheated  the  other  out  of  his  interest  by  filing 
the  claim  in  his  own  name.  He  told  this  as  a 
capital  joke,  laughing  and  thumping  his  knee. 

"Do  you  know  where  Archulera  is  now?" 
Ramon  ventured  to  ask. 

"Archulera?  No,  No;  I  have  not  seen 
Archulera  for  twenty  years.  I  heard  that  he 
married  a  very  common  woman,  half  Indian.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what  became  of  him." 

The  last  of  the  pool  players  had  now  gone  out; 
a  Mexican  boy  had  begun  to  sweep  the  floor;  the 
place  was  about  to  close  for  the  night.  Ramon 
got  his  uncle  to  his  feet  with  some  difficulty,  and 
led  him  outdoors  where  he  looked  about  in  vain 
for  one  of  the  cheap  autos  that  served  the  town 
as  taxicabs.  There  were  only  three  or  four  of 
them,  and  none  of  these  were  in  sight.  The  flat- 
wheeled  street  car  had  made  its  last  screeching 
trip  for  the  night.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  take  the  Don  by  the  arm  and  pilot  him 
slowly  homeward. 

Refreshed  by  the  night  air,  the  old  man  par- 
tially sobered,  walked  with  a  steady  step,  and 
talked  more  eloquently  and  profusely  than  ever. 
Women  were  his  subject  now,  and  it  was  a  subject 
upon  which  he  had  great  store  of  material.  He 

[83] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

told  of  the  women  of  the  South,  of  Sonora  and 
Chihuahua  where  he  had  spent  much  of  his  youth, 
of  how  beautiful  they  were.  He  told  of  a  slim 
little  creature  fifteen  years  old  with  big  black  eyes 
whom  he  had  bought  from  her  peon  father,  and 
of  how  she  had  feared  him  and  how  he  had  con- 
quered her  and  her  fear.  He  told  of  slave  girls 
he  had  bought  from  the  Navajos  as  children  and 
raised  for  his  pleasure.  He  told  of  a  French 
woman  he  had  loved  in  Mexico  City  and  how  he 
had  fought  a  duel  with  her  husband.  He  rose  to 
heights  of  sentimentality  and  delved  into  depths 
of  obscenity,  now  speaking  magniloquently  of  his 
heart  and  what  it  had  suffered,  and  again  leering 
and  chuckling  like  a  satyr  over  some  tale  of  splen- 
did desire. 

Ramon,  walking  silent  and  outwardly  respectful 
by  his  side,  listened  to  all  this  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  envy  and  rage.  He  envied  the  old 
Don  the  rich  share  he  had  taken  of  life's  feast. 
Whatever  else  he  might  be  the  Don  was  not  one 
of  those  who  desire  but  do  not  dare.  He  had 
taken  what  he  wanted.  He  had  tasted  many 
emotions  and  known  the  most  poignant  delights. 
And  now  that  he  was  old  and  his  blood  was  slow, 
he  stood  in  the  way  of  others  who  desired  as 
greatly  and  were  as  avid  of  life  as  ever  he  had 
been.  Ramon  felt  a  great  bitterness  that  clutched 
at  his  throat  and  half  blinded  his  eyes.  He  too 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

loved  and  desired.  And  how  much  more  greatly 
he  desired  than  ever  had  this  old  man  by  his  side, 
with  his  wealth  and  his  easy  satisfactions!  The 
old  Don  apparently  had  never  been  thwarted, 
and  therefore  he  did  not  know  how  keen  and 
punishing  a  blade  desire  may  be ! 

Tense  between  the  two  was  the  enmity  that 
ever  sunders  age  and  youth — age  seeking  to  keep 
its  sovereignty  of  life  by  inculcating  blind  respect 
and  reverence,  and  youth  rebellious,  demanding 
its  own  with  the  passion  of  hot  blood  and  untried 
flesh. 

Between  Old  Town  and  New  Town  flowed  an 
irrigating  ditch,  which  the  connecting  street 
crossed  by  means  of  an  old  wooden  bridge.  The 
ditch  was  this  night  full  of  swift  water,  which 
tore  at  the  button  willows  on  the  bank  and  gur- 
gled against  the  bridge  timbers.  As  they  crossed 
it  the  idea  came  into  Ramon's  head  that  if  a  man 
were  pushed  into  the  brown  water  he  would  be 
swiftly  carried  under  the  bridge  and  drowned. 


[85] 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  following  Saturday  evening  Ramon  was 
again  riding  across  the  mesa,  clad  in  his  dirty 
hunting  clothes,  with  his  shotgun  hung  in  the 
cinches  of  his  saddle.  At  the  start  he  had  been 
undecided  where  he  was  going.  Tormented  by 
desire  and  bitter  over  the  poverty  which  stood 
between  him  and  fulfilment,  he  had  flung  the 
saddle  on  his  mare  and  ridden  away,  feeling  none 
of  the  old  interest  in  the  mountains,  but  impelled 
by  a  great  need  to  escape  the  town  with  all  its 
cruel  spurs  and  resistances. 

Already  the  rhythm  of  his  pony's  lope  and  the 
steady  beat  of  the  breeze  in  his  face  had  calmed 
and  refreshed  him.  The  bitter,  exhausting 
thoughts  that  had  been  plucking  at  his  mind  gave 
way  to  the  idle  procession  of  sensations,  as  they 
tend  always  to  do  when  a  man  escapes  the  artifi- 
cial existence  of  towns  into  the  natural,  animal 
one  of  the  outdoors.  He  began  to  respond  to 
the  deep  appeal  which  the  road,  the  sense  of 
going  somewhere,  always  had  for  him.  Eorjie 
came  of  a  race  of  wanderers.  His  forbears  had 
been  restless  men  to  cross  an  ocean  and  most  of 

[86] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

-^-continent  in  search  of  homes.  He  was  bred  to 
a  life  of  wandering  and  adventure.  Long  pent- 
up  days  in  town  always  made  him  restless,  and 
the  feel  of  a  horse  under  him  and  of  distance  to 
be  overcome'  never  failed  to  give  him  a  sense  of 
well-being. 

Crossing  a  little  arroyo,  he  saw  a  covey  of  the 
blue  desert  quail  with  their  white  crests  erect, 
darting  among  the  rocks  and  cactus  on  the  hill- 
side. It  was  still  the  close  season,  but  he  never 
thought  of  that.  In  an  instant  he  was  all  hunter, 
like  a  good  dog  in  sight  of  game.  He  slipped 
from  his  horse,  letting  the  reins  fall  to  the  ground, 
and  went  running  up  the  rocky  slope,  cleverly 
using  every  bit  of  cover  until  he  came  within 
range.  At  the  first  shot  he  killed  three  of  the 
birds,  and  got  another  as  they  rose  and  whirred 
over  the  hill  top.  He  gathered  them  up  quickly, 
stepping  on  the  head  of  a  wounded  one,  and 
stuffed  them  into  his  pockets.  He  was  grinning, 
now,  and  happy.  The  bit  of  excitement  had 
washed  from  his  mind  for  the  time  being  the  last 
vestige  of  worry.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  lay  on 
his  back  to  smoke  it,  stretching  out  his  legs  luxur- 
iously, watching  the  serene  gyrations  of  a  buz- 
zard. When  he  had  extracted  the  last  possible 
puff  from  the  tobacco,  he  went  back  to  his  horse 
and  rode  on  toward  Archulera's  ranch,  feeling  a 

[87] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

keen  interest  in  the  coarse  but  substantial  supper 
which  he  knew  the  old  man  would  give  him. 

His  visit  this  time  proceeded  just  as  had  all  of 
the  others,  and  he  had  never  enjoyed  one  more 
thoroughly.  Again  the  old  man  killed  a  fatted 
kid  in  his  honour,  and  again  they  had  a  great  feast 
of  fresh  brains  and  tripe  and  biscuits  and  coffee, 
with  the  birds,  fried  in  deep  lard,  as  an  added 
luxury.  Catalina  served  them  in  silence  as  usual, 
but  stole  now  and  then  a  quick  reproachful  look 
at  Ramon.  Afterward,  when  the  girl  had  gone, 
there  were  many  cigarettes  and  much  talk,  as 
before,  Archulera  telling  over  again  the  brave 
wild  record  of  his  youth.  And,  as  always,  he 
told,  just  as  though  he  had  never  told  it  before, 
the  story  of  how  Diego  Delcasar  had  cheated 
him  out  of  his  interest  in  a  silver  mine  in  the 
Guadelupe  Mountains.  As  with  each  former 
telling  he  became  this  time  more  unrestrained  in 
his  denunciation  of  the  man  who  had  betrayed 
him. 

"You  are  not  like  him,"  he  assured  Ramon 
with  passionate  earnestness.  "You  are  generous, 
honourable !  When  your  uncle  is  dead — when  he 
is  dead,  I  say — you  will  pay  me  the  five  thousand 
dollars  which  your  family  owes  to  mine.  Am  I 
right,  amigo?" 

Ramon,  who  was  listening  with  only  half  an  ear, 
was  about  to  make  some  off-hand  reply,  as  he  had 

[88] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

n? 

always  done  before.  But  suddenly  a  strange, 
stirring  idea  flashed  through  his  brain.  Could  it 
be?  Could  that  be  what  Archulera  meant?  He 
glanced  at  the  man.  Archulera  was  watching 
him  with  bright  black  eyes — cunning,  feral — the 
eyes  of  a  primitive  fighting  man,  eyes  that  had 
never  flinched  at  dealing  death. 

Ramon  knew  suddenly  that  his  idea  was  right. 
Blood  pounded  in  his  temples  and  a  red  mist  of 
excitement  swam  before  his  eyes. 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed,  leaping  to  his  feet. 
"Yes !  When  my  uncle  is  dead  I  will  pay  you  the 
five  thousand  dollars  which  the  estate  owes  you  I" 

The  old  man  studied  him,  showing  no  trace  of 
excitement  save  for  the  brightness  of  his  eyes. 

"You  swear  this?"  he  demanded. 

Ramon  stood  tall,  his  head  lifted,  his  eyes 
bright. 

"Yes;  I  swear  it,"  he  replied,  more  quietly 
now.  "I  swear  it  on  my  honour  as  a  Delcasarl" 


[89] 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  murder  of  Don  Diego  Delcasar,  which  oc- 
curred about  three  weeks  later,  provided  the 
town  with  an  excitement  which  it  thoroughly  en- 
joyed. Although  there  was  really  not  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  about  the  affair,  since  it  remained 
from  the  first  a  complete  mystery,  the  local  papers 
devoted  a  great  deal  of  space  to  it.  The  Evening 
Journal  announced  the  event  in  a  great  black 
headline  which  ran  all  the  way  across  the  top  of 
the  first  page.  The  right-hand  column  was  de- 
voted to  a  detailed  description  of  the  scene  of  the 
crime,  while  the  rest  of  the  page  was  occupied  by 
a  picture  of  the  Don,  by  a  hastily  written  and 
highly  inaccurate  account  of  his  career,  and  by 
statements  from  prominent  citizens  concerning 
the  great  loss  which  the  state  had  suffered  in  the 
death  of  this,  one  of  its  oldest  and  most  valued 
citizens. 

In  the  editorial  columns  the  Don  was  described 
as  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  and  one 
who  had  always  lived  up  to  its  highest  traditions. 
The  fact  was  especially  emphasized  that  he  had 
commanded  the  respect  and  confidence  of  both 

[90] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  races  which  made  up  the  population  of  the 
state,  and  his  long  and  honourable  association  in  a 
business  enterprise  with  a  leading  local  attorney 
was  cited  as  proof  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
above  all  race  antagonisms. 

The  morning  Herald  took  a  slightly  different 
tack.  Its  editorial  writer  was  a  former  New 
York  newspaperman  of  unusual  abilities  who  had 
been  driven  to  the  Southwest  by  tuberculosis.  In 
an  editorial  which  was  deplored  by  many  prom- 
inent business  men,  he  pointed  out  that  unpunished 
murderers  were  all  too  common  in  the  State. 
He  cited  several  cases  like  this  of  Don  Delcasar 
in  which  prominent  men  had  been  assassinated, 
and  no  arrest  had  followed.  Thus,  only  a  few 
years  before,  Col.  Manuel  Escudero  had  been 
killed  by  a  shot  fired  through  the  window  of  a 
saloon,  and  still  more  recently  Don  Solomon 
Estrella  had  been  found  drowned  in  a  vat  of 
sheep-dip  on  his  own  ranch.  He  cited  statistics 
to  show  that  the  percentage  of  convictions  in 
murder  trials  in  that  State  was  exceedingly  small. 
Daringly,  he  asked  how  the  citizens  could  expect 
to  attract  to  the  State  the  capital  so  much  needed 
for  its  development,  when  assassination  for  per- 
sonal and  political  purposes  was  there  tolerated 
much  as  it  had  been  in  Europe  during  the  Middle 
Ages.  He  ended  by  a  plea  that  the  Mounted 

[91] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Police  should  be  strengthened,  so  that  it  would  be 
capable  of  coping  with  the  situation. 

This  editorial  started  a  controversy  between 
the  two  papers  which  ultimately  quite  eclipsed  in 
interest  the  fact  that  Don  Delcasar  was  dead. 
The  Morning  Journal  declared  that  the  Herald 
editorial  was  in  effect  a  covert  attack  upon  the 
Mexican  people,  pointing  out  that  all  the  cases 
cited  were  those  of  Mexicans,  and  it  came  gal- 
lantly and  for  political  reason  to  the  defence  of 
the  race.  At  this  point  the"Tribuna  del  Pueblo" 
of  Old  Town  jumped  into  the  fight  with  an  editor- 
ial in  which  it  was  asserted  that  both  the  gringo 
papers  were  maligning  the  Mexican  people.  It 
pointed  out  that  the  gringos  controlled  the  politi- 
cal machinery  of  the  State,  and  that  if  murder  was 
there  tolerated  the  dominant  race  was  to  blame. 

Meanwhile  the  known  facts  about  the  murder 
of  Don  Delcasar  remained  few,  simple  and  un- 
illuminating.  About  once  a  month  the  Don  used 
to  drive  in  his  automobile  to  his  lands  in  the 
northern  part  of  the  State.  He  always  took  the 
road  across  the  mesa,  which  passed  near  the 
mouth  of  Domingo  Canyon  and  through  the  scis- 
sors pass,  and  he  nearly  always  went  alone. 

When  he  was 'half  way  across  the  mesa,  the 
front  tires  of  the  Don's  car  had  been  punctured 
by  nails  driven  through  a  board  and  hidden  in 
the  sand  of  the  road.  Evidently  the  Don  had 

[92] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

risen  to  alight  and  investigate  when  he  had  been 
shot,  for  his  body  had  been  found  hanging  across 
the  wind-shield  of  the  car  with  a  bullet  hole; 
through  the  head. 

The  discovery  of  the  body  had  been  made  by  a 
Mexican  woodcutter  who  was  on  the  way  to  town 
with  a  load  of  wood.  He  had  of  course  been  i  ~ 
held  by  the  police  and  had  been  closely  questioned, 
but  it  was  easily  established  that  he  had  no  con- 
nection with  the  crime. 

It  was  evident  that  the  Don  had  been  shot 
from  ambush  with  a  rifle,  and  probably  from  a 
considerable  distance,  but  absolutely  no  trace  of 
the  assassin  had  been  found.  Not  only  the  chief 
of  police  and  several  patrolmen,  and  the  sheriff 
with  a  posse,  but  also  many  private  citizens  in 
automobiles  had  rushed  to  the  scene  of  the  crime 
and  joined  in  the  search.  The  surrounding 
country  was  dry  and  rocky.  Not  even  a  track 
had  been  found. 

The  motive  of  the  murder  was  evidently  not 
robbery,  for  nothing  had  been  taken,  although 
the  Don  carried  a  valuable  watch  and  a  consider- 
able sum  of  money.  Indeed,  there  was  no  evi- 
dence that  the  murderer  had  even  approached  the 
body. 

The  Don  had  been  a  staunch  Republican, 
and  the  Morning  Herald,  also  Republican,  ad- 
vanced the  theory  that  he  had  been  killed  by 

[93] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

political  enemies.     This  theory  was  ridiculed  by 
the  Evening  Journal,  which  was  Democratic. 

The  local  police  arrested  as  a  suspect  a  man 
who  was  found  in  hiding  near  a  water  tank  at 
the  railroad  station,  but  no  evidence  against  him 
could  be  found  and  he  had  to  be  released.  The 
sheriff  extracted  a  confession  of  guilt  from  a 
sheep  herder  who  was  found  about  ten  miles 
from  the  scene  of  the  crime,  but  it  was  subse- 
quently proved  by  this  man's  relatives  that  he 
was  at  home  and  asleep  at  the  time  the  crime  was 
committed,  and  that  he  was  well  known  to  be  of 
unsound  mind.  For  some  days  the  newspapers 
continued  daily  to  record  the  fact  that  a  "diligent 
search"  for  the  murderer  was  being  conducted, 
but  this  search  gradually  came  to  an  end  along 
with  public  interest  in  the  crime. 


[94] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  day  after  the  news  of  his  uncle's  murder 
reached  him,  Ramon  lay  on  his  bed  in  his  darkened 
room  fully  dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  black.  He 
was  not  ill,  and  anything  would  have  been  easier 
for  him  than  to  lie  there  with  nothing  to  do  but 
to  think  and  to  stare  at  a  single  narrow  sunbeam 
which  came  through  a  rent  in  the  window  blind. 
But  it  was  a  Mexican  custom,  old  and  revered, 
for  the  family  of  one  recently  dead  to  lie  upon 
its  beds  in  the  dark  and  so  to  receive  the  con- 
dolences of  friends  and  the  consolations  of  re- 
ligion. To  disregard  this  custom  would  have 
been  most  unwise  for  an  ambitious  young  man, 
and  besides,  Ramon's  mother  clung  tenaciously  to 
the  traditional  Mexican  ways,  and  she  would  not 
have  tolerated  any  breach  of  them.  At  this 
moment  she  and  her  two  daughters  were  likewise 
lying  in  their  rooms,  clad  in  new  black  silk  and 
surrounded  by  other  sorrowing  females. 

It  was  so  still  in  the  room  that  Ramon  could 
hear  the  buzz  of  a  fly  in  the  vicinity  of  the  solitary 
sunbeam,  but  from  other  parts  of  the  house  came 
occasional  human  sounds.  One  of  these  was  an 

[95] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

intermittent  howling  and  wailing  from  the  placita. 
This  he  knew  was  the  work  of  two  old  Mexican 
women  who  made  their  livings  by  acting  as  profes- 
sional mourners.  They  did  not  wait  for  an  invita- 
tion but  hung  about  like  buzzards  wherever  there 
was  a  Mexican  corpse.  Seated  on  the  ground  with 
their  black  shawls  pulled  over  their  heads,  they 
wailed  with  astonishing  endurance  until  the  coffin 
was  carried  from  the  house,  when  they  were  sure 
of  receiving  a  substantial  gift  from  the  grateful 
relatives.  Ramon  resolved  that  he  would  give 
them  ten  dollars  each.  He  felt  sure  they  had 
never  gotten  so  much.  He  was  determined  to  do 
handsomely  in  all  things  connected  with  the 
funeral. 

He  could  also  hear  faintly  a  rattle  of  wagons, 
foot  steps  and  low  human  voices  coming  from  the 
front  of  the  house.  A  peep  had  shown  him  that 
already  a  line  of  wagons,  carriages  and  buggies 
half  a  block  long  had  formed  in  the  street,  and  he 
could  hear  the  arrival  of  another  one  every  few 
minutes.  These  vehicles  brought  the  numerous 
and  poor  relations  of  Don  Delcasar  who  lived  in 
the  country.  All  of  them  would  be  there  by 
night.  Each  one  of  them  would  come  into  Ram- 
on's room  and  sit  by  his  bedside  and  take  his  hand 
and  express  sympathy.  Some  of  them  would 
weep  and  some  would  groan,  although  all  of 

[96] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

them,  like  himself,  were  profoundly  glad  that  the 
Don  was  dead.  Ramon  hoped  that  they  would 
make  their  expressions  brief.  And  later,  he 
knew,  all  would  gather  in  the  room  where  the 
casket  rested  on  two  chairs.  They  would  sit  in  a 
silent  solemn  circle  about  the  room,  drinking 
coffee  and  wine  all  night.  And  he  would  be 
among  them,  trying  with  all  his  might  to  look 
properly  sad  and  to  keep  his  eyes  open. 

All  the  time  that  he  lay  there  in  enforced  idle- 
ness he  was  longing  for  action,  his  imagination 
straining  forward.  At  last  his  chance  had  come 
— his  chance  to  have  her.  And  he  would 
have  her.  He  felt  sure  of  it.  He  was  now  a 
rich  man.  As  soon  as  the  will  had  been  read  and 
he  had  come  into  his  own,  he  would  buy  a  big 
automobile.  He  would  go  to  her,  he  would 
sweep  away  her  doubts  and  hesitations.  He 
would  carry  her  away  and  marry  her.  She 
would  be  his.  ...  He  closed  his  eyes  and  drew 
his  breath  in  sharply.  .  .  . 

But  no;  he  would  have  to  wait.  .  .  a  decent  in- 
terval. And  the  five  thousand  dollars  must  be 
gotten  to  Archulera.  That  was  obviously  import- 
ant. And  there  might  not  be  much  cash.  The 
Don  had  never  had  much  ready  money.  He 
might  have  to  sell  land  or  sheep  first.  All  of 
these  things  to  be  done,  and  here  he  lay,  staring 

[97] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

at  the  ceiling  and  listening  to  the  wailing  of  old 
women ! 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door. 
"Entra!"  he  called. 

The  door  opened  softly  and  a  tall,  black-robed 
figure  was  silhouetted  for  a  moment  against  the 
daylight  before  the  door  closed  again.  The 
black  figure  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  by 
the  bed,  silent  save  for  a  faint  rustle. 

Although  he  could  not  see  the  face,  Ramon 
knew  that  this  was  the  priest,  Father  Lugaria. 
He  knew  that  Father  Lugaria  had  come  to  ar- 
range for  the  mass  over  the  body  of  Don  Delcas- 
ar.  He  disliked  Father  Lugaria,  and  knew  that 
the  Father  disliked  him.  This  mutual  antipathy 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  Ramon  seldom  went  to 
Church. 

There  were  others  of  his  generation  who 
showed  the  same  indifference  toward  religion,  and 
this  defection  of  youth  was  a  thing  which  the 
Priests  bitterly  contested.  Ramon  was  perfectly 
willing  to  make  a  polite  compromise  with  them. 
If  Father  Lugaria  had  been  satisfied  with  an  oc- 
casional appearance  at  early  mass,  a  perfunctory 
confession  now  and  then,  the  two  might  have  been 
friends.  But  the  Priest  made  Ramon  a  special 
object  of  his  attention.  He  continually  went  to 
the  Dona.  Delcasar  with  complaints  and  that  de- 
vout woman  incessantly  nagged  her  son,  holding 

[98] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

before  him  always  pictures  of  the  damnation  he 
was  courting.  Once  in  a  while  she  even  produced 
in  him  a  faint  twinge  of  fear — a  recrudescence 
of  the  deep  religious  feeling  in  which  he  was  bred 
— but  the  feeling  was  evanescent.  The  chief 
result  of  these  labours  on  behalf  of  his  soul  had 
been  to  turn  him  strongly  against  the  priest  who 
instigated  them. 

Father  Lugaria  seemed  all  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy now.  He  sat  close  beside  Ramon  and 
took  his  hand.  Ramon  could  smell  the  good 
wine  on  the  man's  breath,  and  could  see  faintly 
the  brightness  of  his  eyes.  The  grip  of  the 
priest's  hand  was  strong,  moist  and  surprisingly 
cold.  He  began  to  talk  in  the  low  monotonous 
voice  of  one  accustomed  to  much  chanting,  and 
this  droning  seemed  to  have  some  hypnotic  quali- 
ty. It  seemed  to  lull  Ramon's  mind  so  that  he 
could  not  think  what  he  was  going  to  say  or  do. 

The  priest  expressed  his  sympathy.  He  spoke 
of  the  great  and  good  man  the  Don  had  been. 
Slowly,  adroitly,  he  approached  the  real  question 
at  issue,  which  was  how  much  Ramon  would  pay 
for  a  mass.  The  more  he  paid,  the  longer  the 
mass  would  be,  and  the  longer  the  mass  the  speed- 
ier would  be  the  journey  of  the  Don's  soul 
through  purgatory  and  into  Paradise. 

"O,  my  little  brother  in  Christ!"  droned  the 
priest  in  his  vibrant  sing-song,  "I  must  not  let  you 

[99] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

neglect  this  last,  this  greatest  of  things  which  you 
can  do  for  the  uncle  you  loved.  It  is  unthinkable 
of  course  that  his  soul  should  go  to  hell — hell, 
where  a  thousand  demons  torture  the  soul  for  an 
eternity.  Hell  is  for  those  who  commit  the 
worst  of  sins,  sins  they  dare  not  lay  before  God 
for  his  forgiveness,  secret  and  terrible  sins — 
sins  like  murder.  But  few  of  us  go  through  life 
untouched  by  sin.  The  soul  must  be  purified  be- 
fore it  can  enter  the  presence  of  its  maker.  .  .  . 
Doubtless  the  soul  of  your  uncle  is  in  purgatory, 
and  to  you  is  given  the  sweet  power  to  speed  that 
soul  on  its  upward  way.  .  .  . 

"Don  Delcasar,  we  all  know,  killed.  .  .  . 
More  than  once,  doubtless,  he  took  the  life  of  a 
fellow  man.  But  he  did  it  in  combat  as  a  soldier, 
as  a  servant  of  the  State.  .  .  .  That  is  not  mur- 
der. That  would  not  doom  him  to  hell,  which  is 
the  special  punishment  of  secret  and  unforgiven 
murder.  .  .  .  But  the  soul  of  the  Don  must  be 
cleansed  of  these  earthly  stains.  .  .  ." 

The  strong,  cold  grip  of  the  priest  held  Ramon 
with  increasing  power.  The  monotonous,  hyp- 
notic voice  went  on  and  on,  becoming  ever  more 
eloquent  and  confident.  Father  Lugaria  was  a 
man  of  imagination,  and  the  special  home  of  his 
imagination  was  hell.  For  thirty  years  he  had 
held  despotic  sway  over  the  poor  Mexicans  who 
made  up  most  of  his  flock,  and  had  gathered 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

much  money  for  the  Church,  by  painting  word- 
pictures  of  hell.  He  was  a  veritable  artist  of 
hell.  He  loved  hell.  Again  and  again  he  di- 
gressed from  the  strict  line  of  his  argument  to 
speak  of  hell.  With  all  the  vividness  of  a  thing 
seen,  he  described  its  flames,  its  fiends,  the  ter- 
rible stink  of  burning  flesh  and  the  vast  chorus  of 
agony  that  filled  it.  ...  And  for  some  obscure 
reason  or  purpose  he  always  spoke  of  hell  as  the 
special  punishment  of  murderers.  Again  and 
again  in  his  discourse  he  coupled  murder  and  hell. 

Ramon  was  wearied  by  strong  emotions  and  a 
shortness  of  sleep.  His  nerves  were  overstrung. 
This  ceaseless  iteration  of  hell  and  murder, 
murder  and  hell  would  drive  him  crazy,  he 
thought.  He  wished  mightily  that  the  priest 
would  have  done  and  name  his  price  and  go. 
What  was  the  sense  and  purpose  of  this  endless 
babble  about  hell  and  murder?  ...  A  sickening 
thought  struck  him  like  a  blow,  leaving  him  weak. 
What  if  old  Archulera  had  confessed  to  the 
priest? 

Well;  what  if  he  had?  A  priest  could  not 
testify  about  what  he  had  heard  in  confessional. 
But  a  priest  might  tell  some  one  else ....  O,God ! 
If  the  man  would  only  go  and  leave  him  to  think. 
Hell  and  murder,  murder  and  hell.  The  two 
words  beat  upon  his  brain  without  mercy.  He 
longed  to  interrupt  the  priest  and  beg  him  to 
[101] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

leave  off.  But  for  some  reason  he  could  not. 
He  could  not  even  turn  his  head  and  look  at  the 
man.  The  priest  was  but  a  clammy  grip  that  held 
him  and  a  disembodied  voice  that  spoke  of  hell 
and  murder.  Had  he  done  murder?  And  was 
there  a  hell?  He  had  long  ceased  to  believe  in 
hell,  but  hell  had  been  real  to  him  as  a  child.  His 
mother  and  his  nurse  had  filled  him  with  the  fear 
of  hell.  He  had  been  bred  in  the  fear  of  hell.  It 
was  in  his  flesh  and  bones  if  not  in  his  mind,  and 
the  priest  had  hypnotized  his  mind.  Hell  was 
real  to  him  again.  Fear  of  hell  came  up  from  the 
past  which  vanishes  but  is  never  gone,  and  gripped 
him  like  a  great  ugly  monster.  It  squeezed  a 
cold  sweat  out  of  his  body  and  made  his  skin 
prickle  and  his  breath  come  short.  .  .. 

The  priest  dropped  the  subject  of  hell,  and 
spoke  again  of  the  mass.  He  mentioned  a  sum  of 
money.  Ramon  nodded  his  head  muttering  his 
assent  like  a  sick  man.  The  grip  on  his  hand 
relaxed. 

"Good-bye,  my  little  brother,"  murmured  the 
priest.  "May  Christ  be  always  with  you."  His 
gown  rustled  across  the  room  and  as  he  opened 
the  door,  Ramon  saw  his  face  for  a  moment — a 
sallow,  shrewd  face,  bedewed  with  the  sweat  of  a 
great  effort,  but  wearing  a  smile  of  triumphant 
satisfaction. 

Ramon  lay  sick  and  exhausted.  It  seemed  to 
[102] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

him  that  there  was  no  air  in  the  room.  He  was 
suffocating.  His  body  burned  and  prickled.  He 
rose  and  tore  loose  his  collar.  He  must  get  out 
of  this  place,  must  have  air  and  movement. 

It  was  dusk  now.  The  wailing  of  the  old 
women  had  ceased.  Doubtless  they  were  being 
rewarded  with  supper.  He  began  stripping  off 
his  clothes — his  white  shirt  and  his  new  suit  of 
black.  Eagerly  rummaging  in  the  closet  he  found 
his  old  clothes,  which  he  wore  on  his  trips  to  the 
mountains. 

In  the  dim  light  he  slipped  out  of  the  house, 
indistinguishable  from  any  Mexican  boy  that 
might  have  been  about  the  place.  He  saddled 
the  little  mare  in  the  corral,  mounted  and  galloped 
away — through  Old  Town,  where  skinny  dogs 
roamed  in  dark  narrow  streets  and  men  and 
women  sat  and  smoked  in  black  doorways — and 
out  upon  the  valley  road.  There  he  spurred  his 
mare  without  mercy,  and  they  flew  over  the  soft 
dust.  The  rush  of  the  air  in  his  face,  and  the  thud 
and  quiver  of  living  flesh  under  him  were  infinitely 
sweet. 

He  stopped  at  last  five  miles  from  town  on  the 
bank  of  the  river.  It  was  a  swift  muddy  river, 
wandering  about  in  a  flood  plain  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  wide,  and  at  this  point  chewing  noisily  at  a 
low  bank  forested  with  scrubby  cottonwoods. 

Dismounting,  he  stripped  and  plunged  into  the 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

river.  It  was  only  three  feet  deep,  but  he  wal- 
lowed about  in  it  luxuriously,  finding  great 
comfort  in  the  caress  of  the  cool  water,  and  of 
the  soft  fine  sand  upon  the  bottom  which  clung 
about  his  toes  and  tickled  the  soles  of  his  feet, 
Then  he  climbed  out  on  the  bank  and  stood  where 
the  breeze  struck  him,  rubbing  the  water  off  of  his 
slim  strong  body  with  the  flats  of  his  hands. 

When  he  had  put  on  his  clothes,  he  indulged 
his  love  of  lying  flat  on  the  ground,  puffing  a 
cigarette  and  blowing  smoke  at  the  first  stars. 
A  hunting  owl  flitted  over  his  head  on  muffled 
wing;  a  coyote  yapped  in  the  bushes;  high  up  in 
the  darkness  he  heard  the  whistle  of  pinions  as 
a  flock  of  early  ducks  went  by. 

He  took  the  air  deeply  into  his  lungs  and 
stretched  out  his  legs.  In  this  place  fear  of  hell 
departed  from  his  mind  as  some  strong  liquors 
evaporate  when  exposed  to  the  open  air.  The 
splendid  healthy  animal  in  him  was  again  dom- 
inant, and  it  could  scarcely  conceive  of  death  and 
had  nothing  more  to  do  with  hell  than  had  the 
owl  and  the  coyote  that  killed  to  live.  Here  he 
felt  at  peace  with  the  earth  beneath  him  and  the 
sky  above.  But  one  thought  came  to  disturb  him 
and  it  was  also  sweet — the  thought  of  a  woman, 
her  eyes  full  of  promise,  the  curve  of  her  mouth. 
.  .  .  She  was  waiting  for  him,  she  would  be  his. 
That  was  real.  .  .  .  Hell  was  a  dream. 

[104] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

He  saw  now  the  folly  of  his  fears  about 
Archulera,  too.  Archulera  never  went  to  church. 
There  was  no  danger  that  he  would  ever  confess 
to  any  one.  And  even  if  he  did,  he  could  scarcely 
injure  Ramon.  For  Ramon  had  done  no  wrong. 
He  had  but  promised  an  old  man  his  due,  righted 
an  ancient  wrong ....  He  smiled. 

Slowly  he  mounted  and  rode  home,  filled  with 
thoughts  of  the  girl,  to  put  on  his  mourning 
clothes  and  take  his  decorous  place  in  the  circle 
that  watched  his  uncle's  bier. 


[105] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

All  the  ceremonies  and  procedures,  religious 
and  legal,  which  had  been  made  necessary  by  the 
death  of  Don  Diego  Delcasar,  were  done.  The 
body  of  the  Don  had  been  taken  to  the  church  in 
Old  Town  and  placed  before  the  altar,  the  casket 
covered  with  black  cloth  and  surrounded  by 
candles  in  tall  silver  candlesticks  which  stood  upon 
the  floor.  A  Mass  of  impressive  length  had  been 
spoken  over  it  by  Father  Lugaria  assisted  by 
numerous  priests  and  altar  boys,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  ceremony  the  hundreds  of  friends  and  rel- 
atives of  the  Don,  who  filled  the  church,  had 
lifted  up  their  voices  in  one  of  the  loudest  and 
most  prolonged  choruses  of  wailing  ever  heard  in 
that  country,  where  wailing  at  a  funeral  is  as  much 
a  matter  of  formal  custom  as  is  cheering  at  a 
political  convention.  Afterwards  a  cortege  nearly 
a  mile  in  length,  headed  by  a  long  string  of  car- 
riages and  tailed  by  a  crowd  of  poor  Mexicans 
trudging  hatless  in  the  dust,  had  made  the  hot 
and  wearisome  journey  to  the  cemetery  in  the 
sandhills. 

Then  the  will  had  been  read  and  had  revealed 
that  Ramon  Delcasar  was  heir  to  the  bulk  of  his 
[106] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

uncle's  estate,  and  that  he  was  thereby  placed  in 
possession  of  money,  lands  and  sheep  to  the  value 
of  about  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  It  was 
said  by  those  who  knew  that  the  Don's  estate  had 
once  been  at  least  twice  that  large,  and  there  were 
some  who  irreverently  remarked  that  he  had  been 
taken  off  none  too  soon  for  the  best  interests  of 
his  heirs. 

Shortly  after  the  reading  of  the  will,  Ramon 
rode  to  the  Archulera  ranch,  starting  before  day- 
light and  returning  after  dark.  He  exchanged 
greetings  with  the  old  man,  just  as  he  had  always 
done. 

"Accept  my  sympathy,  amigo"  Archulera  said 
in  his  formal,  polite  way,  "that  you  have  lost  your 
uncle,  the  head  of  your  great  family." 

"I  thank  you,  friend,"  Ramon  replied.  "A 
man  must  bear  these  things.  Here  is  something  I 
promised  you,"  he  added,  laying  a  small  heavy 
canvas  bag  upon  the  table,  just  as  he  had  always 
laid  a  package  of  tobacco  or  some  other  small 
gift. 

Old  Archulera  nodded  without  looking  at  the 
bag. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

Afterward  they  talked  about  the  bean  crop  and 
the  weather,  and  had  an  excellent  dinner  of  goat 
meat  cooked  with  chile. 

In  town  Ramon  found  himself  a  person  of  no- 

[107] 


I 


., 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

ticeably  increased  importance.  One  of  his  first 
acts  had  been  to  buy  a  car,  and  he  had  attracted 
much  attention  while  driving  this  about  the 
streets,  learning  to  manipulate  it.  He  killed  one 
chicken  and  two  dogs  and  handsomely  reimbursed 
their  owners.  These  minor  accidents  were  due 
to  his  tendency,  the  result  of  many  years  of  horse- 
manship, to  throw  his  weight  back  on  the  steering 
wheel  and  shout  "whoa  !"  whenever  a  sudden  emer- 
gency occurred.  But  he  was  apt,  and  soon  was 
running  his  car  like  an  expert. 

His  personal  appearance  underwent  a  change 
too.  He  had  long  cherished  a  barbaric  leaning 
toward  finery,  which  lack  of  money  had  prevented 
him  from  indulging.  Large  diamonds  fascinated 
him,  and  a  leopard  skin  vest  was  a  thing  he  had 
always  wanted  to  own.  But  these  weaknesses  he 
now  rigorously  suppressed.  Instead  he  noted 
carefully  the  dress  of  Gordon  Roth  and  of  other 
easterners  whom  he  saw  about  the  hotel,  and 
ordered  from  the  best  local  tailor  a  suit  of  quiet 
colour  and  conservative  cut,  but  of  the  very  best 
English  material.  He  bought  no  jewelry  except  a 
single  small  pearl  for  his  necktie.  His  hat,  his 
shoes,  the  way  he  had  his  neck  shaved,  all  were 
changed  as  the  result  of  a  painstaking  observation 
such  as  he  had  never  practised  before.  He 
wanted  to  make  himself  as  much  as  possible  like 
the  men  of  Julia's  kind  and  class.  And  this  desire 

[108] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

modified  his  manner  and  speech  as  well  as  his 
appearance.  He  was  careful,  always  watching 
himself.  His  manner  was  more  reserved  and 
quiet  than  ever,  and  this  made  him  appear  older 
and  more  serious.  He  smiled  when  he  overheard 
a  woman  say  that  "he  took  the  death  of  his  uncle 
much  harder  than  she  would  have  expected." 

Ramon  now  received  business  propositions 
every  day.  Men  tried  to  sell  him  all  sorts  of 
things,  from  an  idea  to  a  ranch,  and  most  of  them 
seemed  to  proceed  on  the  assumption  that,  being 
young  and  newly  come  into  his  money,  he  should 
part  with  it  easily.  Several  of  the  opportunities 
offered  him  had  to  do  with  the  separation  of  the 
poor  Mexicans  from  their  land  holdings.  A 
prominent  attorney  came  all  the  way  from  a  town 
in  the  northern  part  of  the  State  to  lay  before 
him  a  proposition  of  this  kind.  This  lawyer, 
named  Cooley,  explained  that  by  opening  a  store 
in  a  certain  rich  section  of  valley  land,  opportu- 
nities could  be  created  for  lending  the  Mexicans 
money.  Whenever  there  was  a  birth,  a  funeral 
or  a  marriage  among  them,  the  Mexicans  needed 
money,  and  could  be  persuaded  to  sign  mortgages, 
which  they  generally  could  not  read.  In  each 
Mexican  family  there  would  be  either  a  birth,  a 
marriage  or  a  death  once  in  three  years  on  an 
average.  Three  such  events  would  enable  the 
lender  to  gain  possession  of  a  ranch.  And  Cooley 
[109] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

had  an  eastern  client  who  would  then  buy  the  land 
at  a  good  figure.  It  was  a  chance  for  Ramon  to 
double  his  money. 

"You've  got  the  money  and  you  know  the  native 
people,"  Cooley  argued  earnestly.  "I've  got  the 
sucker  and  I  know  the  law.  It's  a  sure  thing." 

Ramon  thanked  him  politely  and  refused  firmly. 
The  idea  of  robbing  a  poor  Mexican  of  his  ranch 
by  nine  years  of  usury  did  not  appeal  to  him  at  all. 
In  the  first  place,  it  would  be  a  long,  slow  tedious 
job,  and  besides,  poor  people  always  aroused  his 
pity,  just  as  rich  ones  stirred  his  greed  and  envy. 
He  was  predatory,  but  lion-like,  he  scorned  to 
spring  on  small  game.  He  did  not  realize  that  a 
lion  often  starves  where  a  jackal  grows  fat. 

Only  one  opportunity  came  to  him  which  in- 
terested him  strongly.  A  young  Irishman  named 
Hurley  explained  to  him  that  it  was  possible  to 
buy  mules  in  Mexico,  where  a  revolution  was  going 
on,  for  ten  dollars  each  at  considerable  personal 
risk,  to  run  them  across  the  Rio  Grande  and  to 
sell  them  to  the  United  States  army  for  twenty 
dollars.  Here  was  a  gambler's  chance,  action  and 
adventure.  It  caught  his  fancy  and  tempted  him. 
But  he  had  no  thought  of  yielding.  Another 
purpose  engrossed  him. 

These  weeks  after  his  uncle's  funeral  gave  him 
his  first  real  grapple  with  the  world  of  business, 
and  the  experience  tended  to  strengthen  him  in  a 
[1 10] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

certain  cynical  self-assurance  which  had  been 
growing  in  him  ever  since  he  first  went  away  to 
college,  and  had  met  its  first  test  in  action 
when  he  spoke  the  words  that  lead  to  the  Don's 
death.  He  felt  a  deep  contempt  for  most  of 
these  men  who  came  to  him  with  their  schemes 
and  their  wares.  He  saw  that  most  of  them  were 
ready  enough  to  swindle  him,  though  few  of  them 
would  have  had  the  courage  to  rob  him  with  a  gun. 
Probably  not  one  of  them  would  have  dared  to  kill 
a  man  for  money,  but  they  were  ready  enough  to 
cheat  a  poor  pclado  out  of  his  living,  which  often 
came  to  the  same  thing.  He  felt  that  he  was 
bigger  than  most  of  them,  if  not  better.  His  self- 
respect  was  strengthened. 

"Life  is  a  fight,"  he  told  himself,  feeling  that  he 
had  hit  upon  a  profound  and  original  idea. 
"Every  man  wants  pretty  women  and  money. 
He  gets  them  if  he  has  enough  nerve  and  enough 
sense.  And  somebody  else  gets  hurt,  because 
there  aren't  enough  pretty  women  and  money  to 
go  around. " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  this  was  the  essence  of 
all  wisdom. 


[ml 


CHAPTER  XV 

Ramon  had  always  been  rather  a  solitary  figure 
in  his  own  town.  Although  he  belonged  nom- 
inally to  the  ubunch"  of  young  gringos,  Jews  and 
Mexicans,  who  foregathered  at  the  White  Camel 
Pool  Hall,  their  amusements  did  not  hold  his 
interest  very  strongly.  They  played  a  picayune 
game  of  poker,  which  resulted  in  a  tangled  mass 
of  debt;  they  went  on  occasional  mild  sprees,  and 
on  Saturday  nights  they  visted  the  town's  red  light 
district,  hardy  survivor  of  several  vice  crusades, 
where  they  danced  with  portly  magdalenes  in 
gaudy  kimonos  to  the  music  of  a  mechanical  piano, 
luxuriating  in  conscious  wickedness. 

All  of  this  had  seemed  romantic  and  delight- 
fully vicious  to  Ramon  a  few  years  before,  but  it 
soon  palled  on  his  restless  and  discontented  spirit. 
He  had  formed  the  habit  of  hunting  alone,  and 
had  found  adventures  more  to  his  taste.  But  now 
he  found  himself  in  company  more  than  ever 
before.  He  was  bid  to  every  frolic  that  took 
place.  In  the  White  Camel  he  was  often  the 
centre  of  a  small  group,  which  included  men  older 
than  himself  who  had  never  paid  any  attention 
[112] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

to  him  before,  but  now  addressed  him  with  a 
certain  deference.  Although  he  understood  well 
enough  that  most  of  the  attentions  paid  him  had 
an  interested  motive,  he  enjoyed  the  sense  of 
leadership  which  these  gatherings  gave  him.  If 
he  was  not  a  real  leader  now,  he  intended  to  be- 
come one.  He  listened  to  what  men  said,  watched 
them,  and  said  little  himself.  He  was  quick  to 
grasp  the  fact  that  a  reputation  for  shrewdness 
and  wisdom  is  made  by  the  simple  method  of  keep- 
ing the  mouth  shut. 

He  made  many  acquaintances  among  the  new 
element  which  had  recently  come  to  town  from  the 
East  in  search  of  health  or  money,  but  he  made  no 
real  friends  because  none  of  these  men  inspired 
him  with  respect.  Only  one  man  he  attached  to 
himself,  and  that  one  by  the  simple  tie  of  money. 
His  name  was  Antonio  Cortez.  He  was  a  small, 
skinny,  sallow  Mexican  with  a  great  moustache, 
behind  which  he  seemed  to  be  discreetly  hiding, 
and  a  consciously  cunning  eye.  Of  an  old  and 
once  wealthy  Spanish  family,  he  had  lost  all  of  his 
money  by  reason  of  a  lack  of  aptitude  for  business, 
and  made  his  living  as  a  sort  of  professional 
political  henchman.  He  was  a  bearer  of  secret 
messages,  a  maker  of  deals,  an  eavesdropper. 
The  Latin  aptitude  for  intrigue  he  had  in  a  high 
degree.  He  was  capable  of  almost  anything  in 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  way  of  falsehood  or  evasion,  but  he  had  that 
great  capacity  for  loyalty  which  is  so  often  the 
virtue  of  weaklings. 

"I  have  known  your  family  for  many  years," 
he  told  Ramon  importantly,  "And  I  feel  an 
interest  in  you,  almost  as  though  you  were  my 
own  son.  You  need  an  older  friend  to  advise 
you,  to  attend  to  details  in  the  management  of 
your  great  estate.  You  will  probably  go  into 
politics  and  you  need  a  political  manager.  As  an 
old  friend  of  your  family  I  want  to  do  these 
things  for  you.  What  do  you  say?" 

Ramon  answered  without  any  hesitation  and 
prompted  solely  by  intuition : 

"I  thank  you,  friend,  and  I  accept  your  offer." 

He  knew  instinctively  that  he  could  trust  this 
man  and  also  dominate  him.  It  was  just  such  a 
follower  that  he  needed.  Nothing  was  said 
about  money,  but  on  the  first  of  the  month  Ram- 
on mailed  Cortez  a  check  for  a  hundred  dollars, 
and  that  became  his  regular  salary. 


["4] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

About  two  weeks  after  the  Don's  funeral, 
Ramon  received  a  summons  which  he  had  been 
vaguely  expecting.  He  was  asked  by  Mr.  Mac- 
Dougall's  secretary  over  the  telephone  to  call, 
whenever  it  would  be  convenient,  at  Mr.  Mac- 
Dougall's  office. 

He  knew  just  what  this  meant.  MacDougall 
would  try  to  make  with  him  an  arrangement 
somewhat  similar  to  the  one  he  had  had  with  the 
Don.  Ramon  knew  that  he  did  not  want  such  an 
arrangement  on  any  terms.  He  felt  confident 
that  no  one  could  swindle  him,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  was  half  afraid  of  the  Scotchman;  he  felt 
instinctively  that  MacDougall  was  a  man  for  him 
to  avoid.  And  besides,  he  intended  to  use  his 
lands  in  his  own  way.  He  would  sell  part  of 
them  to  the  railroad,  which  was  projected  to  be 
built  through  them,  if  he  could  get  a  good  price; 
but  the  hunger  for  owning  land,  for  dominating  a 
part  of  the  earth,  was  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  his 
right  hand.  He  wanted  no  modern  business 
partnership.  He  wanted  to  be  "el  patron"  as  so 
many  Delcasars  had  been  before  him. 

Here  was  a  temptation  to  be  dramatic,  to  hurl 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

a  picturesque  defiance  at  the  gringo.  Ramon 
might  have  yielded  to  it  a  few  months  before. 
Sundry  brave  speeches  flashed  through  his  mind, 
as  it  was.  But  he  resolutely  put  them  aside. 
There  was  too  much  at  stake  .  .  .  his  love.  He 
determined  to  call  on  MacDougall  promptly  and 
to  be  polite. 

MacDougall  was  a  heavy,  bald  man  of  Scotch 
descent,  and  very  true  to  type.  He  had  come  to 
town  from  the  East  about  fifteen  years  before 
with  his  wife  and  his  two  tall,  raw-boned  children 
— a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  family  had  been 
very  poor.  They  had  lived  in  a  small  adobe 
house  on  the  mesa.  For  ten  years  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dougall had  done  all  of  her  own  housework,  in- 
cluding the  washing;  the  two  children  had  gone  to 
school  in  clothes  that  seemed  always  too  small  for 
them;  and  MacDougall  had  laboured  obscurely 
day  and  night  in  a  small  dark  office.  During 
these  ten  years  the  MacDougalls  had  been  com- 
pletely overlooked  by  local  society,  and  if  they 
felt  any  resentment  they  did  not  show  it. 

Meantime  MacDougall  had  been  systematic- 
ally and  laboriously  laying  the  foundations  of  a 
fortune.  His  passion  was  for  land.  He  loaned 
money  on  land,  chiefly  to  Mexicans,  and  he  took 
mortgages  on  land  in  return  for  defending  his 
Mexican  clients,  largely  on  criminal  charges. 
Some  of  the  land  he  farmed,  and  some  he  rented, 
[n6] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

but  much  of  it  lay  idle,  and  the  taxes  he  had  to 
pay  kept  his  family  poor  long  after  it  might  have 
been  comfortable.  But  his  lands  rose  steadily  in 
value;  he  began  selling,  discreetly;  and  the  Mac- 
Dougalls  came  magnificently  into  their  own. 
MacDougall  was  now  one  of  the  wealthiest  men 
in  the  State.  In  five  years  his  way  of  living  had 
undergone  a  great  change.  He  owned  a  large 
brick  house  in  the  highlands  and  had  several  ser- 
vants. The  boy  had  gone  to  Harvard,  and  the 
girl  to  Vassar.  Neither  of  them  was  so  gawky 
now,  and  both  of  them  were  much  sought  socially 
during  their  vacations  at  home.  MacDougall 
himself  had  undergone  a  marked  change  for  a  man 
past  fifty.  He  had  become  a  stylish  dresser  and 
looked  younger.  He  drove  to  work  in  a  large 
car  with  a  chauffeur.  In  the  early  morning  he 
went  riding  on  the  mesa,  mounted  on  a  big 
Kentucky  fox-trotter,  clad  in  English  riding 
clothes,  jouncing  solemnly  up  and  down  on  his 
flat  saddle,  and  followed  by  a  couple  of  carefully- 
laundered  white  poodles.  On  these  expeditions 
he  was  a  source  of  great  edification  and  some 
amusement  to  the  natives. 

In  the  town  he  was  a  man  of  weight  and  in- 
fluence, but  the  country  Mexicans  hated  him. 
Once  when  he  was  looking  over  some  lands 
recently  acquired  by  the  foreclosure  of  mortgages, 
a  bullet  had  whistled  close  to  his  ear,  and  another 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

had  punctured  the  hood  of  his  car.     He  now  hired 
a  man  to  do  his  "outside  work." 

Thus  both  MacDougall  and  his  children  had 
thrived  and  developed  on  their  wealth.  Mrs. 
MacDougall,  perhaps,  had  been  the  sacrifice. 
She  remained  a  tall,  thin,  pale,  tired-looking 
woman  with  large  hands  that  were  a  record  of 
toil.  She  laboured  at  her  new  social  duties  and 
"pleasures"  in  exactly  the  same  spirit  that  she 
had  formerly  laboured  at  the  wash  tub. 

MacDougall's  offices  now  occupied  all  of  the 
ground  floor  of  a  large  new  building  which  he  had 
built.  Like  everything  else  of  his  authorship  this 
building  represented  a  determined  effort  to  lend 
the  town  an  air  of  Eastern  elegance.  It  was 
finished  in  an  imitation  of  white  marble  and  the 
offices  had  large  plate  glass  windows  which  bore 
in  gilt  letters  the  legend:  "MacDougall  Land 
and  Cattle  Company,  Inc."  Within,  half  a 
dozen  girls  in  glass  cages  could  be  seen  working 
at  typewriters  and  adding  machines,  while  a  cash- 
ier occupied  a  little  office  of  his  own  with  a  large 
safe  at  his  back,  a  little  brass  grating  in  front  of 
him,  and  a  revolver  visible  not  far  from  his  right 
hand. 

The  creator  of  this  magnificence  sat  behind  a 
glasstop  desk  at  the  far  end  of  a  large  and  sunny 
office  with  a  bare  and  slippery  floor.  Many  a 
Mexican  beggar  for  mercy,  with  a  mortgage  on 

'[118] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

his  home,  had  walked  across  this  forbidding  ex- 
panse of  polished  hardwood  toward  the  big  man 
with  the  merciless  eye,  as  fearfully  as  ever  a 
peon,  sentenced  to  forty  lashes  and  salt  in  his 
wounds,  approached  the  'seat  of  his  owner  to 
plead  for  a  whole  skin.  Truly,  the  weak  can  but 
change  masters. 

This  morning  MacDougall  was  all  affability. 
As  he  stood  up  behind  his  desk,  clad  in  a  light 
grey  suit,  large  and  ruddy,  radiant  of  health  and 
prosperity,  he  was  impressive,  almost  splendid. 
Only  the  eyes,  small  and  closeset,  revealed  the 
worried  and  calculating  spirit  of  the  man. 

uMr.  Delcasar,"  he  said  when  they  had  shaken 
hands  and  sat  down,  "I  am  glad  to  welcome  you 
to  this  office,  and  I  hope  to  see  you  here  many 
times  more.  I  will  not  waste  time,  for  we  are 
both  busy  men.  I  asked  you  to  come  here  be- 
cause I  want  to  suggest  a  sort  of  informal  part- 
nership between  us,  such  as  I  had  with  your  late 
uncle,  one  of  my  best  friends.  I  believe  my  plan 
will  be  for  the  best  interests  of  both  of  us.  ...  I 
suppose  you  know  about  what  the  arrangement 
was  between  the  Don  and  myself?" 

"No;  not  in  detail,"  Ramon  confessed.  He 
felt  MacDougall's  power  at  once.  Facing  the 
man  was  a  different  matter  from  planning  an 
interview  with  him  when  alone.  But  he  retained 
sense  enough  to  let  MacDougall  do  the  talking. 

["91 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Have  a  cigar,"  the  great  man  continued,  full 
of  sweetness,  pushing  a  large  and  fragrant  box 
of  perfectos  across  the  desk.  UI  will  outline  the 
situation  to  you  briefly,  as  I  see  it."  Nothing 
could  have  seemed  more  frank  and  friendly  than 
his  manner. 

"As  you  doubtless  know,"  he  went  on,  "your 
estate  includes  a  large  area  of  mountain  and  mesa 
land — a  little  more  than  nine  thousand  acres  I 
believe — north  and  west  of  the  San  Antonio 
River  in  Arriba  County.  I  own  nearly  as  much 
land  on  the  east  side  of  the  river.  The  valley 
itself  is  owned  by  a  number  of  natives  in  small 
farming  tracts. 

"I  believe  your  estate  also  includes  a  few  small 
parcels  of  land  in  the  valley,  but  not  enough,  you 
understand,  to  be  of  much  value  by  itself.  Your 
uncle  also  owned  a  few  tracts  in  the  valley  east  of 
the  river  which  he  transferred  to  me,  for  a  consid- 
eration, because  they  abutted  upon  my  holdings. 

"Now  the  valley,  as  I  scarcely  need  tell  you, 
is  the  key  to  the  situation.  In  the  first  place,  if 
the  country  is  to  be  properly  developed  as  sheep 
and  cattle  range,  the  valley  will  furnish  the  farm- 
ing land  upon  which  hay  for  winter  use  can  be 
raised,  and  it  also  furnishes  some  good  winter 
range.  Moreover,  it  is  now  an  open  secret  that 
the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande  Railroad  proposes 
building  a  branch  line  through  that  country  and 
[120] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

into  the  San  Juan  Valley.  No  surveys  have  been 
made,  but  it  is  certain  that  the  road  must  follow 
the  San  Antonio  to  the  top  of  the  divide.  There 
is  no  other  way  through.  I  became  aware  of 
this  project  some  time  ago  through  my  eastern 
connections,  and  told  your  uncle  about  it.  He 
and  I  joined  forces  for  the  purpose  of  gaining 
control  of  the  San  Antonio  Valley,  and  of  the 
railroad  right-of-way. 

"The  proposition  is  a  singularly  attractive  one. 
Not  only  could  the  right-of-way  be  sold  for  a  very 
large  sum,  but  we  would  afterward  own  a  splendid 
bit  of  cattle  range,  with  farming  land  in  the 
valley,  and  with  a  railroad  running  through  the 
centre  of  it.  There  is  nothing  less  than  a  fortune 
to  be  made  in  the  San  Antonio  Valley,  Mr. 
Delcasar. 

"And  the  lands  in  the  valley  can  be  acquired. 
Some  of  the  small  owners  will  sell  outright. 
Furthermore,  they  are  all  frequently  in  need  of 
money,  especially  during  dry  years  when  the  crops 
are  not  good.  By  advancing  loans  judiciously, 
and  taking  land  as  security,  title  can  often  be 
acquired.  ...  I  daresay  you  are  not  wholly  un- 
familiar with  the  method. 

"This  work,  Mr.  Delcasar,  requires  large 
capital,  which  I  can  command.  It  also  requires 
certain  things  which  you  have  in  an  unusual 
degree.  You  are  of  Spanish  descent,  you  speak 

[121] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  language  fluently.  You  have  political  and 
family  prestige  among  the  natives.  All  of  this 
will  be  of  great  service  in  persuading  the  natives 
to  sell,  and  in  getting  the  necessary  information 
about  land  titles,  which,  as  you  know,  requires 
much  research  in  old  Spanish  Church  records 
and  much  interviewing  of  the  natives  themselves. 

"In  the  actual  making  of  purchases,  my  name 
need  not  appear.  In  fact,  I  think  it  is  very 
desirable  that  it  should  not  appear.  But  under- 
stand that  I  will  furnish  absolutely  all  of  the  cap- 
ital for  the  enterprise.  I  am  offering  you,  Mr. 
Delcasar,  an  opportunity  to  make  a  fortune  with- 
out investing  a  cent,  and  I  feel  that  I  can  count 
upon  your  acceptance." 

At  the  close  of  this  discourse,  Ramon  felt  like 
a  surf-bather  who  has  been  overwhelmed  by  a 
great  and  sudden  wave  and  comes  up  gasping  for 
breath  and  struggling  for  a  foothold.  Never 
had  he  heard  anything  so  brilliantly  plausible, 
for  never  before  had  he  come  into  contact  with  a 
good  mind  in  full  action.  Yet  he  regained  his 
balance  in  a  moment.  He  was  accustomed  to 
act  by  intuition,  not  by  logic,  and  his  intuition  was 
all  against  accepting  MacDougall's  offer.  He 
was  not  deceived  by  the  Scotchman's  show  of 
friendship  and  beneficence;  he  himself  had  an 
aptitude  for  pretence,  and  he  understood  it  better 
[122] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

than  he  would  have  understood  sincerity.  He 
knew  that  whether  he  formed  this  partnership  or 
not,  there  was  sure  to  be  a  struggle  between  him 
and  MacDougall  for  the  dominance  of  the  San 
Antonio  Valley.  And  his  instinct  was  to  stand 
free  and  fight ;  not  to  come  to  grips.  MacDougall 
was  a  stronger  man  than  he.  The  one  advantage 
which  he  had — his  influence  over  the  natives — 
he  must  keep  in  his  own  hands,  and  not  let  his 
adversary  turn  it  against  him. 

He  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  looked  at 
it  a  moment,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Mr.  MacDougall,"  he  said  slowly,  "this  offer 
makes  me  proud.  That  you  should  have  so  much 
confidence  in  me  as  to  wish  to  make  me  your  part- 
ner is  most  gratifying.  I  am  sorry  that  I  must 
refuse.  I  have  other  plans.  .  .  ." 

MacDougall  nodded,  interrupting.  This  was 
evidently  a  contingency  he  had  calculated. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Delcasar.  I  had  hoped  to  be 
permanently  associated  with  you  in  this  venture. 
But  I  think  I  understand.  You  are  young. 
Perhaps  marriage,  a  home  are  your  immediate 
objects,  and  you  need  cash  at  once,  rather  than 
a  somewhat  distant  prospect  of  greater  wealth. 
In  that  case  I  think  I  can  meet  your  wishes.  I 
am  prepared  to  make  you  a  good  offer  for  all  of 
your  holdings  in  the  valley,  and  those  immediately 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

adjoining  it.  The  exact  amount  I  cannot  state  at 
this  moment,  but  I  feel  sure  we  could  agree  as 
to  price." 

Ramon  was  taken  aback  by  the  promptness  of 
the  counter,  confused,  forced  to  think.  Money 
was  a  thing  he  wanted  badly.  He  had  little  cash. 
If  MacDougall  would  give  him  fifty  thousand, 
he  could  go  with  Julia  anywhere.  He  would  be 
free.  But  again  the  inward  prompting,  sure  and 
imperative,  said  no.  He  wanted  the  girl  above 
all  things.  But  he  wanted  land,  too.  His  was 
the  large  and  confident  greed  of  youth.  And  he 
could  have  the  girl  without  making  this  con- 
cession. MacDougall  wanted  to  take  the  best  of 
his  land  and  push  him  out  of  the  game  as  a  weak- 
ling, a  negligible.  He  wouldn't  submit.  He 
would  fight,  and  in  his  own  way.  What  he 
wanted  now  was  to  end  the  interview,  to  get  away 
from  this  battering,  formidable  opponent.  He 
rose. 

"I  will  think  it  over,  Mr.  MacDougall,"  he 
said.  "And  meantime,  if  you  will  send  me  an 
offer  in  writing,  I  will  appreciate  it." 

Some  of  the  affability  faded  from  Mac- 
Dougall's  face  as  he  too  rose,  and  the  worried 
look  in  his  little  grey  eyes  intensified,  as  though 
he  sensed  the  fact  that  this  was  an  evasion. 
None-the-less  he  said  good-bye  cordially  and 
promised  to  write  the  letter. 

[124] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Ramon  went  back  to  his  office,  his  mind  stim- 
ulated, working  intensely.  Never  before  had  he 
thought  so  clearly  and  purposefully.  He  got 
out  an  old  government  map  of  Arriba  County, 
and  with  the  aid  of  the  deeds  in  the  safe  which 
contained  all  his  uncle's  important  paper's,  he 
managed  to  mark  off  his  holdings.  The  whole 
situation  became  as  clear  to  him  as  a  checker 
game.  He  owned  a  bit  of  land  in  the  valley 
which  ran  all  the  way  across  it,  and  far  out  upon 
the  mesa  in  a  long  narrow  strip.  That  was  the 
way  land  holdings  were  always  divided  under  the 
Spanish  law — into  strips  a  few  hundred  feet  wide, 
and  sometimes  as  much  as  fourteen  miles  long. 
This  strip  would  in  all  probability  be  vital  to 
the  proposed  right-of-way.  It  explained  Mac- 
Dougall's  eagerness  to  take  him  as  a  partner  or 
else  to  buy  him  out.  By  holding  it,  he  would 
hold  the  key  to  the  situation. 

In  order  really  to  dominate  the  country  and 
to  make  his  property  grow  in  value  he  would  have 
to  own  more  of  the  valley.  And  he  could  not 
get  money  enough  to  buy  except  very  slowly. 
But  he  could  use  his  influence  with  the  natives  to 
prevent  MacDougall  from  buying.  MacDougall 
was  a  gringo.  The  Mexicans  hated  him.  He 
had  been  shot  at.  Ramon  could  "preach  the  race 
issue,"  as  the  politicians  put  it. 

The   important  thing  was   to   strengthen   and 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

assert  his  influence  as  a  Mexican  and  a  Delcasar. 
He  must  go  to  Arriba  County,  open  the  old  ranch 
house  he  owned  there,  go  among  the  people.  He 
must  gain  a  real  ascendency.  He  knew  how  to 
do  it.  It  was  his  birthright.  He  was  full  of 
fight  and  ambition,  confident,  elated.  The  way 
was  clear  before  him.  Tomorrow  he  would  go 
to  Julia. 


[I26] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

He  had  received  a  note  of  sympathy  from  her 
soon  after  his  uncle's  death  and  he  had  called  at 
the  Roths'  once,  but  had  found  several  other 
callers  there  and  no  opportunity  of  being  alone 
with  her.  Then  she  had  gone  away  on  a  two- 
weeks  automobile  trip  to  the  i  Mesa  Verde 
National  Park,  so  that  he  had  seen  practically 
nothing  of  her.  But  all  of  this  time  he  had  been 
thinking  of  her  more  confidently  than  ever  before. 
He  was  rich  now,  he  was  strong.  All  of  the 
preliminaries  had  been  finished.  He  could  go 
to  her  and  claim  her. 

He  called  her  on  the  telephone  from  his 
office,  and  the  Mexican  maid  answered.  She 
would  see  if  Miss  Roth  was  in.  After  a  long 
wait  she  reported  that  Miss  Roth  was  out.  He 
tried  again  that  day,  and  a  third  time  the  next 
morning  with  a  like  result. 

This  filled  him  with  anxious,  angry  bewilder- 
ment. He  felt  sure  she  had  not  really  been  out 
all  three  times.  Were  her  mother  and  brother 
keeping  his  message  from  her?  Or  had  some- 
thing turned  her  against  him?  He  remembered 
with  a  keen  pang  of  anxiety,  for  the  first  time, 

[127] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  insinuations  of  Father  Lugaria.  Could  that 
miserable  rumour  have  reached  her?  He  had  no 
idea  how  she  would  have  taken  it  if  it  had.  He 
really  did  not  know  or  understand  this  girl  at 
all;  he  merely  loved  her  and  desired  her  with  a 
desire  which  had  become  the  ruling  necessity  of 
his  life.  To  him  she  was  a  being  of  a  different 
sort,  from  a  different  world — a  mystery.  They 
had  nothing  in  common  but  a  rebellious  dis- 
content with  life,  and  this  glamorous  bewilder- 
ing thing,  so  much  stronger  than  they,  so  far 
beyond  their  comprehension,  which  they  called 
their  love. 

That  was  the  one  thing  he  knew  and  counted 
on.  He  knew  how  imperiously  it  drove  him,  and 
he  knew  that  she  had  felt  its  power  too.  He  had 
seen  it  shine  in  her  eyes,  part  her  lips;  he  had 
heard  it  in  her  voice,  and  felt  it  tremble  in  her 
body.  If  only  he  could  get  to  her  this  potent 
thing  would  carry  them  to  its  purpose  through 
all  barriers. 

Angry  and  resolute,  he  set  himself  to  a  system- 
atic campaign  of  telephoning.  At  last  she 
answered.  Her  voice  was  level,  quiet,  weary. 

"But  I  have  an  engagement  for  tonight,"  she 
told  him. 

"Then  let  me  come  tomorrow,"  he  urged. 

"No;  I  can't  do  that.  Mother  is  having  some 
people  to  dinner.  .  ." 

[128] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

At  last  he  begged  her  to  set  a  date,  but  she  re- 
fused, declared  that  her  plans  were  unfixed,  told 
him  to  call  "some  other  time." 

His  touchy  pride  rebelled  now.  He  cursed 
these  gringos.  He  hated  them.  He  wished 
for  the  power  to  leave  her  alone,  to  humble  her 
by  neglect.  But  he  knew  that  he  did  have  it. 
Instead  he  waited  a  few  days  and  then  drove  to 
the  house  in  his  car,  having  first  carefully  as- 
certained by  watching  that  she  was  at  home. 

All  three  of  them  received  him  in  their  sitting 
room,  which  they  called  the  library.  It  was  an 
attractive  room,  sunny  and  tastefully  furnished, 
with  a  couple  of  book  cases  filled  with  new-look- 
ing books  in  sets,  a  silver  tea  service  on  a  little 
wheeled  table,  flowers  that  matched  the  wall 
paper,  and  a  heavy  mahogany  table  strewn  with 
a  not-too-disorderly  array  of  magazines  and 
paper  knives.  It  was  the  envy  of  the  local  women 
with  social  aspirations  because  it  looked  elegant 
and  yet  comfortable. 

Conversation  was  slow  and  painful.  Mrs. 
Roth  and  her  son  were  icily  formal,  confining 
themselves  to  the  most  commonplace  remarks. 
And  Julia  did  not  help  him,  as  she  had  on  his 
first  visit.  She  looked  pale  and  tired  and  care- 
fully avoided  his  eyes. 

When  he  had  been  there'  about  half  an  hour, 
Mrs.  Roth  turned  to  her  daughter. 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Julia,"  she  said,  "If  we  are  going  to  get  to 
Mrs.  MacDougall's  at  half-past  four  you  must 
go  and  get  ready.  You  will  excuse  her,  won't  you 
Mr.  Delcasar?" 

The  girl  obediently  went  up  stairs  without 
shaking  hands,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Ramon 
went  away,  feeling  more  of  misery  and  less  of 
self-confidence  than  ever  before  in  his  life. 

He  almost  wholly  neglected  his  work.  Cortez 
brought  him  a  report  that  MacDougall  had  a 
new  agent,  who  was  working  actively  in  Ar- 
riba  County,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  it.  His 
life  seemed  to  have  lost  purpose  and  interest. 
For  the  first  time  he  doubted  her  love.  For  the 
first  time  he  really  feared  that  he  would  lose  her. 

Most  of  his  leisure  was  spent  riding  or  walking 
about  the  streets,  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse 
of  her.  He  passed  her  house  as  often  as  he 
dared,  and  studied  her  movements.  When  he 
saw  her  in  the  distance  he  felt  an  acute  thrill  of 
mingled  hope  and  misery.  Only  once  did  he  meet 
her  fairly,  walking  with  her  brother,  and  then 
she  either  failed  to  see  him  or  pretended  not  to. 

One  afternoon  about  five  o'clock  he  left  his 
office  and  started  home  in  his  car.  A  storm  was 
piling  up  rapidly  in  big  black  clouds  that  rose 
from  behind  the  eastern  mountains  like  giants 
peering  from  ambush.  It  was  sultry ;  there  were 
loud  peals  of  thunder  and  long  crooked  flashes  of 

[130] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

lightning.  At  this  season  of  late  summer  the 
weather  staged  such  a  portentous  display  almost 
every  afternoon,  and  it  rained  heavily  in  the 
mountains;  but  the  showers  only  reached  the 
thirsty  mesa  and  valley  lands  about  one  day  in 
four. 

Ramon  drove  home  slowly,  gloomily  wonder- 
ing whether  it  would  rain  and  hoping  that  it 
would.  A  Southwesterner  is  always  hoping  for 
rain,  and  in  his  present  mood  the  rush  and  beat  of 
a  storm  would  have  been  especially  welcome. 

His  hopes  were  soon  fulfilled.  There  was  a 
cold  blast  of  wind,  carrying  a  few  big  drops,  and 
then  a  sudden,  drumming  downpour  that  tore  up 
the  dust  of  the  street  and  swiftly  converted  it 
into  a  sea  of  mud  cut  by  yellow  rivulets. 

As  his  car  roared  down  the  empty  street,  he 
glimpsed  a  woman  standing  in  the  shelter  of  a  big 
cottonwood  tree,  cowering  against  its  trunk.  A 
quick  thrill  shot  through  his  body.  He  jammed 
down  the  brake  so  suddenly  that  his  car  skidded 
and  sloughed  around.  He  carefully  turned  and 
brought  up  at  the  curb. 

She  started  at  sight  of  him  as  he  ran  across  the 
side-walk  toward  her. 

"Come  on  quick!"  he  commanded,  taking  her 
by  the  arm,  "I'll  get  you  home."  Before  she 
had  time  to  say  anything  he  had  her  in  the  car, 
and  they  were  driving  toward  the  Roth  house. 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  it  the  first  strength 
of  the  shower  was  spent,  and  there  was  only  a 
light  scattering  rain  with  a  rift  showing  in  the 
clouds  over  the  mountains. 

He  deliberately  passed  the  house,  putting  on 
more  speed  as  he  did  so. 

"But  ...  I  thought  you  were  going  to  take  me 
home,"  she  said,  putting  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I'm  not,"  he  announced,  without  looking 
around.  His  hands  and  eyes  were  fully  occupied 
with  his  driving,  but  a  great  suspense  held  his 
breath.  The  hand  left  his  arm,  and  he  heard  her 
settle  back  in  her  seat  with  a  sigh.  A  great 
warm  wave  of  joy  surged  through  him. 

He  took  the  mountain  road,  which  was  a  short 
cut  between  Old  Town  and  the  mountains, 
seldom  used  except  by  wood  wagons.  Within 
ten  minutes  they  were  speeding  across  the  mesa. 
The  rain  was  over  and  the  clouds  running  across 
the  sky  in  tatters  before  a  fresh  west  wind.  Be- 
fore them  the  rolling  grey-green  waste  of  the 
mesa,  spotted  and  veined  with  silver  waters, 
reached  to  the  blue  rim  of  the  mountains — 
empty  and  free  as  an  undiscovered  world. 

He  slowed  his  car  to  ten  miles  an  hour  and 
leaned  back,  steering  with  one  hand.  The  other 
fell  upon  hers,  and  closed  over  it.  For  a  time 
they  drove  along  in  silence,  conscious  only  of  that 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

electrical  contact,  and  of  the  wind  playing  in  their 
faces  and  the  soft  rhythmical  hum  of  the  great 
engine. 

At  the  crest  of  a  rise  he  stopped  the  car  and 
stood  up,  looking  all  about  at  the  vast  quiet  wild- 
erness, filling  his  lungs  with  air.  He  liked  that 
serene  emptiness.  He  had  always  felt  at  peace 
with  these  still  desolate  lands  that  had  been  the 
background  of  most  of  his  life.  Now,  with  the 
consciousness  of  the  woman  beside  him,  they  filled 
him  with  a  sort  of  rapture,  an  ecstasy  of  reverence 
that  had  come  down  to  him  perhaps  from 
savage  forebears  who  had  worshipped  the  Earth 
Mother  with  love  and  awe. 

He  dropped  down  beside  her  again  and  with- 
out hesitation  gathered  her  into  his  arms.  After 
a  moment  he  held  her  a  little  away  from  him  and 
looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Why  wouldn't  you  let  me  come  to  see  you? 
Why  did  you  treat  me  that  way?"  he  plead. 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

"They  made  me." 

"But  why?  Because  I'm  a  Mexican?  And 
does  that  make  any  difference  to  you?" 

"O,  I  can't  tell  you....  They  say  awful 
things  about  you.  I  don't  believe  them.  No; 
nothing  about  you  makes  any  difference  to  me." 

He  held  her  close  again. 

[133] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Then  you'll  go  away  with  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  nodding  her  head. 
"I'll  go  anywhere  with  you." 

"Now!"  he  demanded.  "Will  you  go  now? 
We  can  drive  through  Scissors  Pass  to  Abol  on 
the  Southeastern  and  take  a  train  to  Denver.  .  ." 

"O,  no,  not  now,"  she  plead.  "Please  not 
now.  ...  I  can't  go  like  this.  .  ." 

"Yes;  now,"  he  urged.  "We'll  never  have  a 
better  chance.  ..." 

"I  beg  you,  if  you  love  me,  don  't  make  me  go 
now.  I  must  think  .  .  .  and  get  ready. .  .  .  Why 
I  haven't  even  got  any  powder  for  my  nose." 

They  both  laughed.  The  tension  was  broken. 
They  were  happy. 

"Give  me  a  little  while  to  get  ready,"  she 
proposed,  "and  I'll  go  when  you  say." 

"You  promise?" 

"Cross  my  heart. .  .  .  On  my  life  and  honour. 
Please  take  me  home  now,  so  they  won 't  suspect 
anything.  If  only  nobody  sees  us !  Please  hurry. 
It'll  be  dark  pretty  soon.  You  can  write  to  me. 
It's  so  lonely  out  here !" 

He  turned  his  car  and  drove  slowly  townward, 
his  free  hand  seeking  hers  again.  It  was  dusk 
when  they  reached  the  streets.  Stopping  his  car 
in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  he  kissed  her  and  helped 
her  out. 

He  sat  still  and  watched  her  out  of  sight.     A 

[134] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

tinge  of  sadness  and  regret  crept  into  his  mind, 
and  as  he  drove  homeward  it  grew  into  an  active 
discontent  with  himself.  Why  had  he  let  her 
go  ?  True,  he  had  proved  her  love,  but  now  she 
was  to  be  captured  all  over  again.  He  ought  to 
have  taken  her.  He  had  been  a  fool.  She 
would  have  gone.  She  had  begged  him  not  to 
take  her,  but  if  he  had  insisted,  she  would  have 
gone.  He  had  been  a  fool! 


[135]    ' 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  second  morning  after  this  ride,  while  he 
was  labouring  over  a  note  to  the  girl,  he  was 
amazed  to  get  one  from  her  postmarked  at 
Lorietta,  a  station  a  hundred  miles  north  of  town 
at  the  foot  of  the  Mora  Mountains,  in  which 
many  of  the  town  people  spent  their  summer  vaca- 
tions. It  was  a  small  square  missive,  exhaling  a 
faint  scent  of  lavender,  and  was  simple  and  direct 
as  a  telegram. 

uWe  have  gone  to  the  Valley  Ranch  for  a 
month,"  she  wrote.  "We  had  not  intended  to  go 
until  August,  but  there  was  a  sudden  change  of 
plans.  Somebody  saw  you  and  me  yesterday.  I 
had  an  awful  time.  Please  don  't  try  to  see  me 
or  write  to  me  while  we're  here.  It  will  be  best 
for  us.  I'll  be  back  soon.  I  love  you." 

He  sat  glumly  thinking  over  this  letter  for  a 
long  time.  The  disappointment  of  learning  that 
he  would  not  see  her  for  a  month  was  bad  enough, 
but  it  was  not  the  worst  thing  about  this 
sudden  development.  For  this  made  him  realize 
what  alert  and  active  opposition  he  faced  on  the 
part  of  her  mother  and  brother.  Their  dislike 
for  him  had  been  made  manifest  again  and  again, 

[136] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

but  he  had  supposed  that  Julia  was  successfully 
deceiving  them  as  to  his  true  relations  with  her. 
He  had  thought  that  he  was  regarded  merely  as 
an  undesirable  acquaintance;  but  if  they  were 
changing  their  plans  because  of  him,  taking  the 
girl  out  of  his  reach,  they  must  have  guessed  the 
true  state  of  affairs.  And  for  all  that  he  knew, 
they  might  leave  the  country  at  any  time.  His 
heart  seemed  to  give  a  sharp  twist  in  his  body  at 
this  thought.  He  must  take  her  as  soon  as  she 
returned  to  town.  He  could  not  afford  to  miss 
another  chance.  And  meantime  his  affairs  must 
be  gotten  in  order. 

He  had  been  neglecting  his  new  responsibilities, 
and  there  was  an  astonishing  number  of  things  to 
be  done — debts  to  be  paid,  tax  assessments  to  be 
protested,  men  to  be  hired  for  the  sheep-shearing. 
His  uncle  had  left  his  affairs  at  loose  ends,  and  on 
all  hands  were  men  bent  on  taking  advantage  of 
the  fact.  But  he  knew  the  law;  he  had  known 
from  childhood  the  business  of  raising  sheep  on 
the  open  range  which  was  the  backbone  of  his 
fortune;  and  he  was  held  in  a  straight  course  by 
the  determination  to  keep  his  resources  together 
so  that  they  would  strengthen  him  in  his  purpose. 

A  few  weeks  before,  he  had  sent  Cortez  to 
Arriba  County  to  attend  to  some  minor  matters 
there,  and  incidentally  to  learn  if  possible  what 
MacDougall  was  doing.  Cortez  had  spent  a 

[137] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

large  part  of  his  time  talking  with  the  Mexicans 
in  the  San  Antonio  Valley,  eavesdropping  on  con- 
versations in  little  country  stores,  making  friends, 
and  asking  discreet  questions  at  bailes  and  fiestas. 

"Well;  how  goes  it  up  there?"  Ramon  asked 
him  when  he  came  to  the  office  to  make  his  report. 

"It  looks  bad  enough,"  Cortez  replied  lighting 
with  evident  satisfaction  the  big  cigar  his  patron 
had  given  him.  "MacDougall  has  men  working 
there  all  the  time.  He  bought  a  small  ranch  on 
the  edge  of  the  valley  just  the  other  day.  He  is 
not  making  very  fast  progress,  but  he'll  own  the 
valley  in  time  if  we  don't  stop  him." 

"But  who  is  doing  the  work?  Who  is  his 
agent?"  Ramon  enquired. 

"Old  Solomon  Alfego,  for  one.  He's  boss  of 
the  county,  you  know.  He  hates  a  gringo  as 
much  as  any  man  alive,  but  he  loves  a  dollar,  too, 
and  MacDougall  has  bought  him,  I'm  afraid.  I 
think  MacDougall  is  lending  money  through  him, 
getting  mortgages  on  ranches  that  way." 

"Well;  what  do  you  think  we  had  better  do?" 
Ramon  enquired.  The  situation  looked  bad 
on  its  face,  but  he  could  see  that  Cortez  had  a 
plan. 

"Just  one  thing  I  thought  of,"  the  little  man 
answered  slowly.  "We  have  got  to  get  Alfego 
on  our  side.  If  we  can  do  that,  we  can  keep  out 
MacDougall  and  everybody  else  .  .  .  buy  when 

[138] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

we  get  ready.  We  couldn't  pay  Alfego  much, 
but  we  could  let  him  in  on  the  railroad  deal  .  .  . 
something  MacDougall  won't  do.  And  Alfego, 
you  know,  is  a  penitente.  He's  hermano  mayor 
(chief  brother)  up  there.  And  all  those  little 
rancheros  are  penitentes.  It's  the  strongest 
penitente  county  in  the  State,  and  you  know  none 
of  the  penitentes  like  gringos.  None  of  those 
fellows  like  MacDougall;  they're  all  afraid  of 
him.  All  they  like  is  his  money.  You  haven't  so 
much  money,  but  you  could  spend  some.  You 
could  give  a  few  bailes.  You  are  Mexican;  your 
family  is  well-known.  If  you  were  a  penitente , 
too.  .  .  ." 

Cortez  left  his  sentence  hanging  in  the  air. 
He  nodded  his  head  slowly,  his  cigar  cocked  at  a 
knowing  angle,  looking  at  Ramon  through  nar- 
rowed lids. 

Ramon  sat  looking  straight  before  him  for  a 
moment.  He  saw  in  imagination  a  procession  of 
men  trudging  half-naked  in  the  raw  March 
weather,  their  backs  gashed  so  that  blood  ran 
down  to  their  heels,  beating  themselves  and  each 
other.  .  .  .  The  penitentes!  Other  men,  even 
gringos,  had  risen  to  power  by  joining  the  order. 
Why  not  he  ?  It  would  give  him  just  the  prestige 
and  standing  he  needed  in  that  country.  He 
would  lose  a  little  blood.  He  would  win  .  .  . 
everything ! 

[139] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

j 

"You  are  right,  ami  go,"  he  told  Cortez.     "But 

do  you  think  it  can  be  arranged?" 

"I  have  talked  to  Alfego   about  it,"   Cortez 
admitted.     "I  think  it  can  be  arranged." 


[140] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

He  was  all  ready  to  leave  for  Arriba  County 
when  one  more  black  mischance  came  to  bedevil 
him.  Cortez  came  into  the  office  with  a  worried 
look  in  his  usually  unrevealing  eyes. 

"There's  a  woman  in  town  looking  for  you," 
he  announced.  UA  Mexican  girl  from  the 
country.  She  was  asking  everybody  she  met 
where  to  find  you.  You  ought  to  be  more 
careful.  I  took  her  to  my  house  and  promised  I 
would  bring  you  right  away." 

Cortez  lived  in  a  little  square  box  of  a  brick 
cottage,  which  he  had  been  buying  slowly  for  the 
past  ten  years  and  would  probably  never  own. 
In  its  parlour,  gaudy  with  cheap,  new  furniture, 
Ramon  confronted  Catalina  Archulera.  She  was 
clad  in  a  dirty  calico  dress,  and  her  shoes  were 
covered  with  the  dust  of  long  tramping,  as  was 
the  black  shawl  about  her  head  and  shoulders. 
Once  he  had  thought  her  pretty,  but  now  she 
looked  to  him  about  as  attractive  as  a  clod  of 
earth. 

She  stood  before  him  with  downcast  eyes, 
speechless  with  misery  and  embarassment.  At 
first  he  was  utterly  puzzled  as  to  what  could  have 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

brought  her  there.  Then  with  a  queer  mixture 
of  anger  and  pity  and  disgust,  he  noticed  the 
swollen  bulk  of  her  healthy  young  body. 

uCatalina!  Why  did  you  come  here?"  he 
blurted,  all  his  self-possession  gone  for  a  moment. 

"My  father  sent  me,"  she  replied,  as  simply  as 
though  that  were  an  all-sufficient  explanation. 

uBut  why  did  you  tell  him  ...  it  was  I? 
Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  first?" 

"He  made  me  tell,"  Catalina  rolled  back  her 
sleeve  and  showed  some  blue  bruises.  "He  beat 
me,"  she  explained  without  emotion. 

"What  did  he  tell  you  to  say?" 

"He  told  me  to  come  to  you  and  show  you  how 
I  am.  ...  That  is  all." 

Ramon  swore  aloud  with  a  break  in  his  voice. 
For  a  long  moment  he  stood  looking  at  her,  be- 
wildered, disgusted.  It  somehow  seemed  to  him 
utterly  wrong,  utterly  unfair  that  this  thing  should 
have  happened,  and  above  all  that  it  should  have 
happened  now.  He  had  taken  other  girls,  as  had 
every  other  man,  but  never  before  had  any  such 
hard  luck  as  this  befallen  him.  And  now,  of 
all  times ! 

In  Catalina  he  felt  not  the  faintest  interest. 
Before  him  was  the  proof  that  once  he  had  desired 
her.  Now  that  desire  had  vanished  as  completely 
as  his  childhood. 

And  she  was  Archulera's  daughter.     That  was 

[142] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  hell  of  it !  Archulera  was  the  one  man  of  all 
men  whom  he  could  least  afford  to  offend.  And 
he  knew  just  how  hard  to  appease  the  old  man 
would  be.  For  among  the  Mexicans,  seduction 
is  a  crime  which,  in  theory  and  often  in  practice, 
can  be  atoned  only  by  marriage  or  by  the  shedding 
of  blood.  Marriage  is  the  door  to  freedom  for 
the  women,  but  virginity  is  a  thing  greatly  revered 
and  carefully  guarded.  The  unmarried  girl  is 
always  watched,  often  locked  up,  and  he  who 
appropriates  her  to  his  own  purpose  is  violating 
a  sacred  right  and  offending  her  whole  family. 

In  the  towns,  all  this  has  been  somewhat 
changed,  as  the  customs  of  any  country  suffer 
change  in  towns.  But  old  Archulera,  living  in 
his  lonely  canyon,  proud  of  his  high  lineage, 
would  be  the  hardest  of  men  to  appease.  And 
meantime,  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  girl? 

It  was  this  problem  which  brought  his  wits 
back  to  him.  A  plan  began  to  form  in  his  mind. 
He  saw  that  in  sending  her  to  him  Archulera  had 
really  played  into  his  hands.  The  important 
thing  now  was  to  keep  her  away  from  her  father. 
He  looked  at  her  again,  and  the  pity  which  he 
always  felt  for  weaklings  welled  up  in  him.  He 
knew  many  Mexican  ranches  in  the  valley  where 
he  could  keep  her  in  comfort  for  a  small  amount. 
That  would  serve  a  double  purpose.  The  old 
man  would  be  kept  in  ignorance  as  to  what  Ramon 

[143] 


\ 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

intended,  and  the  girl  would  be  saved  from 
furthur  punishment.  Meantime,  he  could  send 
Cortez  to  see  Archulera  and  find  out  what  money 
would  do. 

The  whole  affair  was  big  with  potential  damage 
to  him.  Some  of  his  enemies  might  find  out 
about  it  and  make  a  scandal.  Archulera  might 
come  around  in  an  ugly  mood  and  make  trouble. 
The  girl  might  run  away  and  come  to  town  again. 
And  yet,  now  that  he  had  a  plan,  he  was  all 
confidence. 

Cortez  kept  Catalina  at  his  house  while  Ramon 
drove  forty  miles  up  the  valley  and  made  arrange- 
ments with  a  Mexican  who  lived  in  an  isolated 
place,  to  care  for  her  for  an  indefinite  period. 
When  he  took  Catalina  there,  he  told  her  on  the 
way  simply  that  she  was  to  wait  until  he  came  for 
her,  and  above  all,  that  she  must  not  try  to  com- 
municate with  her  father.  The  girl  nodded, 
looking  at  him  gravely  with  her  large  soft  eyes. 
Her  lot  had  always  been  to  obey,  to  bear  burdens 
and  to  suffer.  The  stuff  of  rebellion  and  of  self- 
assertion  was  not  in  her,  but  she  could  endure  mis- 
fortune with  the  stoical  indifference  of  a  savage. 
Indeed,  she  was  in  all  essentials  simply  a  squaw. 
During  the  ride  to  her  new  home  she  seemed  more 
interested  in  the  novel  sensation  of  travelling  at 
thirty  miles  an  hour  than  in  her  own  future.  She 
clung  to  the  side  of  the  car  with  both  hands,  and 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

her  face  reflected  a  pathetic  mingling  of  fear  and 
delight. 

The  house  of  Nestor  Gomez  to  which  Ramon 
took  her  was  prettily  set  in  a  grove  of  cotton- 
woods,  with  white  hollyhocks  blooming  on  either 
side  of  the  door,  and  strings  of  red  chile  hanging 
from  the  raf  ter-ends~To~  dry^ Half  a  dozen 
small  childrerTpIayed  aBoiif  the  door,  the  younger 
ones  naked  and  all  of  them  deep  in  dirt.  A  hen 
led  her  brood  of  chicks  into  the  house  on  a  foray 
for  crumbs,  and  in  the  shade  of  the  wall  a  mongrel 
bitch  luxuriously  gave  teat  to  four  pups.  Bees 
humming  about  the  hollyhocks  bathed  the  scene 
in  sleepy  sound. 

Catalina,  utterly  unembarassed,  shook  hands 
with  her  host  and  hostess  in  the  limp,  brief  way 
of  the  Mexicans,  and  then,  while  Ramon  talked 
with  them,  sat  down  in  the  shade,  shook  loose 
her  heavy  black  hair  and  began  to  comb  it.  A 
little  half-naked  urchin  of  three  years  came  and 
stood  before  her.  She  stopped  combing  to  place 
her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  the  two  regarded 
each  other  long  and  intently,  while  Catalina's 
mouth  framed  a  smile  of  dull  wonder. 

As  Ramon  drove  back  to  town,  he  marvelled 
that  he  should  ever  have  desired  this  clod  of  a 
woman;  but  he  was  grateful  to  her  for  the  bovine 
calm  with  which  she  accepted  things,  tie  would 
visit  her  once  in  a  while.  He  felt  pretty  sure 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

that  he  could  count  on  her  not  to  make  trouble. 

Afterward  he  discussed  the  situation  with 
Cortez.  The  latter  was  worried. 

"You  better  look  out/'  he  counselled.  "You 
better  send  him  a  message  you  are  going  to  marry 
her.  That  will  keep  him  quiet  for  a  while. 
When  he  gets  over  being  mad,  maybe  you  can 
make  him  take  a  thousand  dollars  instead." 

Ramon  shook  his  head.  If  he  gave  Archulera 
to  understand  that  he  would  marry  the  girl,  word 
of  it  might  get  to  town. 

"He'll  never  find  her,"  he  said  confidently. 
"I'll  do  nothing  unless  he  comes  to  me." 

"I  don't  know,"  Cortez  replied  doubtfully. 
"Is  he  a  penitente?" 

"Yes;  I  think  he  is,"  Ramon  admitted. 

"Then  maybe  he'll  find  her  pretty  quick. 
There  are  some  penitentes  still  in  the  valley  and 
all  penitentes  work  together.  You  better  look 
out." 


[1463 


CHAPTER  XX 

He  had  resolutely  put  the  thought  of  Julia  as 
much  out  of  his  mind  as  possible.  He  had 
conquered  his  disappointment  at  not  being  able  to 
see  her  for  a  month,  and  had  resolved  to  devote 
that  month  exclusively  to  hard  work.  And  now 
came  another  one  of  those  small,  square,  brief 
letters  with  its  disturbing  scent  of  lavender,  and 
its  stamp  stuck  upside  down  near  the  middle  of 
the  envelope. 

UI  will  be  in  town  tomorrow  when  you  get 
this,"  she  wrote,  "But  only  for  a  day  or  two.  We 
are  going  to  move  up  to  the  capital  for  the  rest  of 
the  year.  Gordon  is  going  to  stay  here  now. 
Just  mother  and  I  are  coming  down  to  pack  up 
our  things.  You  can  come  and  see  me  tomorrow 
evening." 

It  was  astonishing,  it  was  disturbing,  it  was 
incomprehensible.  And  it  did  not  fit  in  with  his 
plans.  He  had  intended  to  go  North  and  return 
before  she  did;  then,  with  all  his  affairs  in  order, 
ask  her  to  go  away  with  him.  Cortez  had 
already  sent  word  to  Alfego  that  Ramon  was 
coming  to  Arriba  County.  He  could  not  afford 
a  change  of  plans  now.  But  the  prospect  of 

[147] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

seeing  her  again  filled  him  with  pleasure,  sent  a 
sort  of  weakening  excitement  tingling  through 
his  body. 

And  what  did  it  mean  that  he  was  to  be  allowed 
to  call  on  her?  Had  she,  by  any  chance,  won 
over  her  mother  and  brother?  No;  he  couldn't 
believe  it.  But  he  went  to  her  house  that  evening 
shaken  by  great  hopes  and  anticipations. 

She  wore  a  black  dress  that  left  her  shoulders 
bare,  and  set  off  the  slim  perfection  of  her  little 
figure.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  her  eyes  were 
deep.  How  much  more  beautiful  she  was  than 
the  image  he  carried  in  his  mind!  He  had  been 
thinking  of  her  all  this  while,  and  yet  he  had  for- 
gotten how  beautiful  she  was.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say  at  first,  but  held  her  by  both 
hands  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  wonder 
and  desire.  He  felt  a  fool  because  his  knees  were 
weak  and  he  was  tremulous.  But  a  happy  fool! 
The  touch  and  the  sight  of  her  seemed  to  dissolve 
his  strength,  and  also  the  hardness  and  the  bitter- 
ness that  life  had  bred  in  him,  the  streak  of 
animal  ferocity  that  struggle  brought  out  in  him. 
He  was  all  desire,  but  desire  bathed  in  tenderness 
and  hope.  She  made  him  feel  as  once  long  ago 
he  had  felt  in  church  when  the  music  and  the 
pageantry  and  sweet  odours  of  the  place  had  filled 
his  childish  spirit  with  a  strange  sense  of  harmony. 
He  had  felt  small  and  unworthy,  yet  happy  and 

[I48] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

forgiven.  So  now  he  felt  in  her  presence  that  he 
was  black  and  bestial  beside  her,  but  that  posses- 
sion of  her  would  somehow  wash  him  clean  and 
bring  him  peace. 

When  he  tried  to  draw  her  to  him  she  shook 
her  head,  not  meeting  his  eyes  and  freed  herself 
gently. 

"No,  no.  I  must  tell  you  .  .  .  '  She  led 
him  to  a  seat,  and  went  on,  looking  down  at  a  toe 
that  played  with  a  design  in  the  carpet.  "I  must 
explain.  I  promised  mother  that  if  she  would 
let  me  see  you  this  once  to  tell  you,  I  would  never 
try  to  see  you  again." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  he 
could  feel  his  heart  pounding  and  could  see  that 
she  breathed  quickly.  Then  suddenly  he  took  her 
face  in  both  hot  hands  and  turned  it  toward  him, 
made  her  meet  his  eyes. 

"But  of  course  you  didn't  mean  that,"  he  said. 

She  struggled  weakly  against  his  strength. 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  I  did.  .  .  .  It's  ter- 
rible. You  know.  ...  I  wrote  you  .  .  .  some 
one  saw  us  together.  'Gordon  and  mother  found 
out  about  it.  I  won't  tell  you  all  that  they  said, 
but  it  was  awful.  It  made  me  angry,  and  they 
found  out  that  I  love  you.  It  had  a  terrible  effect 
on  Gordon.  It  made  him  worse.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  awful  it  is  for  me.  I  love  you.  But  I  love 
him  too.  And  to  think  I'm  hurting  him  when 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

he's  sick,  when  I've  lived  in  the  hope  he  would  get 
well.  .  .  ." 

She  was  breathing  hard  now.  Her  eyes  were 
bright  with  tears.  All  her  defences  were  down, 
her  fine  dignity  vanished.  When  he  took  her  in 
his  arms  she  struggled  a  little  at  first;  then  yielded 
with  closed  eyes  to  his  hot  kisses. 

Afterward  they  talked  a  little,  but  not  to  much 
purpose.  He  had  important  things  to  tell  her, 
they  had  plans  to  make.  But  their  great  disturb- 
ing hunger  for  each  other  would  not  let  them 
think  of  anything  else.  Their  conversation  was 
always  interrupted  by  hot  confusing  embraces. 

The  clock  struck  eleven,  and  she  jumped  up. 

"I  promised  to  make  you  go  home  at  eleven," 
she  told  him. 

"But  I  must  tell  you  ...  I  have  to  leave  town 
for  a  while."  He  found  his  tongue  suddenly. 
Briefly  he  outlined  the  situation  he  faced  with 
regard  to  his  estate.  Of  course,  he  said  nothing 
about  the  penitentes,  but  he  made  her  understand 
that  he  was  going  forth  to  fight  for  both  their 
fortunes. 

"I  can't  do  it,  I  won't  go,  unless  I  know  I  am 
to  have  you,"  he  finished.  "Everything  I  have 
done,  everything  I  am  going  to  do  is  for  you.  If 
I  lose  you  I  lose  everything.  You  promise  to  go 
with  me?" 

His  eyes  were  burning  with  earnestness,  and 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

hers  were  wide  with  admiration.  He  did  not 
really  understand  her,  nor  she  him.  Unalterable 
differences  of  race  and  tradition  and  temperament 
stood  between  them.  They  had  little  in  common 
save  a  great  primitive  hunger.  But  that,  none- 
the-less,  for  the  moment  genuinely  transfigured 
.and  united  them. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath. 

uYes.  You  must  promise  not  to  try  to  see  me 
until  then.  When  you  are  ready,  let  me  know." 

She  threw  back  her  head,  opening  her  arms  to 
him.  For  a  moment  she  hung  limp  in  his  em- 
brace; then  pushed  him  away  and  ran  upstairs, 
leaving  him  to  find  his  way  out  alone. 

He  walked  home  slowly,  trying  to  straighten 
out  his  thoughts.  Her  presence  seemed  still  to 
be  all  about  him.  One  of  her  hairs  was  tangled 
about  a  button  of  his  coat;  her  powder  and  the 
scent  of  her  were  all  over  his  shoulder;  the  rec- 
ollection of  her  kisses  smarted  sweetly  on  his 
mouth.  He  was  weak,  confused,  ridiculously 
happy.  But  he  knew  that  he  would  carry  North 
with  him  greater  courage  and  purpose  than  ever 
before  he  had  known. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

In  the  dry  clean  air  of  the  Southwest  all  things 
change  slowly.  Growth  is  slow  and  decay  is  even 
slower.  The  body  of  a  dead  horse  in  the  desert 
does  not  rot  but  dessicates,  the  hide  remaining 
intact  for  months,  the  bones  perhaps  for  years. 
Men  and  beasts  often  live  to  great  age.  The 
pinon  trees  on  the  red  hills  were  there  when  the 
conquerors  came,  and  they  are  not  much  larger 
now  —  only  more^gttftded  and  twisted. 


r  This  strang^f  inertia  seems  to  possess  institu- 
I  tions  and  customs~"as~  well  as  life  itself.  In  the 
I  valley  towns,  it  is  true,  the  railroads  have  brought 
and  thrown  down  all  the  conveniences  and  incon- 
gruities of  civilization.  But  ride  away  from  the 
railroads  into  the  mountains  or  among  the  lava 
mesas,  and  you  are  riding  into  the  past.  You 
will  see  little  earthen  towns,  brown  or  golden  or 
red  in  the  sunlight,  according  to  the  soil  that  bore 
them,  which  have  not  changed  in  a  century.  You 
will  see  grain  threshed  by  herds  of  goats  and 
ponies  driven  around  and  around  the  threshing 
floors,  as  men  threshed  grain  before  the  Bible  was 
written.  You  will  see  Indian  pueblos  which  have 
not  changed  materially  since  the  brave  days  when 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Coronado  came  to  Taos  and  the  Spanish  soldiers 
stormed  the  heights  of  Acoma.     You  will  hear 
of  strange  Gods  and  devils  and  of  the  evil  eye.  ^ 
It  is  almost  as  though  this  crystalline  air  were   I 
indeed  a  great  clear  crystal,  impervious  to  time, 
in  which  the  past  is  forever  encysted. 

The  region  in  which  Ramon's  heritage  lay  was 
a  typical  part  of  this  forgotten  land.  In  the 
southern  end  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  it  was  a 
country  of  great  tilted  mesas  reaching  above 
timber  line,  covered  for  the  most  part  with  heavy 
forests  of  pine  and  fir,  with  here  and  there  great 
upland  pastures  swept  clean  by  forest  fires  of 
long  ago.  Along  the  lower  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tains, where  the  valleys  widened,  were  primitive 
little  adobe  towns,  in  which  the  Mexicans  lived, 
each  owning  a  few  acres  of  tillable  land.  In  the 
summer  they  followed  their  sheep  herds  in  the 
upland  pastures.  There  were  not  a  hundred  f 
white  men  in  the  whole  of  Arriba  County,  and  no  I 
railroad  touched  it. 

In  this  region  a  few  Mexicans  who  were 
shrewder  or  stronger  than  the  others,  who  owned 
stores  or  land,  dominated  the  rest  of  the  people 
much  as  the  patrones  had  dominated  them  in  the 
days  before  the  JMJexican  War.  Here  still 
flourished  the  hatred  for  the  gringo  which  cul- 
minated in  that  war.  Here  that  strange  sect,  the 
penitentes  hermanos,  half  savage  and  half  me-  ' 

[153] 


J 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

diaeval,  still  was  strong  and  still  recruited  its 
strength  every  year  with  young  men,  who  else- 
where were  refusing  to  undergo  its  brutal  tortures. 

For  all  of  these  reasons,  this  was  an  advan- 
tageous field  for  the  fight  Ramon  proposed  to 
make.  In  the  valley  MacDougall's  money  and 
influence  would  surely  have  beaten  him.  But 
here  he  could  play  upon  the  ancient  hatred  for  the 
gringo  ;  here  he  could  use  to  the  best  advantage  the 
prestige  of  his  family;  here,  above  all,  if  he  could 
win  over  the  penitentes,  he  could  do  almost  any 
thing  he  pleased. 

His  plan  of  joining  that  ancient  order  to  gain 
influence  was  not  an  original  one.  Mexican 
politicians  and  perhaps  one  or  two  gringos  had 
done  it,  and  the  fact  was  a  matter  of  common 
gossip.  Some  of  these  penitentes  for  a  purpose 
had  been  men  of  great  influence,  and  their  ini- 
tiations had  been  tempered  to  suit  their  sensitive 
skins.  Others  had  been  Mexicans  of  the  poorer 
sort,  capable  of  sharing  the  half-fanatic,  half  sad- 
istic spirit  of  the  thing. 

Ramon  came  to  the  order  as  a  young  and  almost 
unknown  man  seeking  its  aid.  He  could  not  hope 
for  much  mercy.  And  though  he  was  primitive 
in  many  ways,  there  was  nothing  in  him  that 
responded  to  the  spirit  of  this  ordeal.  The 
thought  of  Christ  crucified  did  not  inspire  him  to 
endure  suffering.  But  the  thought  of  a  girl  with 
yellow  hair  did. 

[154] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Ramon  went  first  to  the  ranch  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains  which  his  uncle  had  used  as  a  head- 
quarters, and  which  had  belonged  to  the  family 
for  about  half  a  century.  It  consisted  merely 
of  an  adobe  ranch  house  and  barn  and  a  log  corral 
for  rounding  up  horses. 

Here  Ramon  left  his  machine.  Here  also  he 
exchanged  his  business  suit  for  corduroys,  a  wide 
hat  and  high-heeled  riding  boots.  He  greatly 
fancied  himself  in  this  costume  and  he  embellished 
it  with  a  silk  bandana  of  bright  scarlet  and  with 
a  large  pair  of  silver  spurs  which  had  belonged 
to  his  uncle,  and  which  he  found  in  the  saddle 
room  of  the  barn.  From  the  accoutrement  in 
this  room  he  also  selected  the  most  pretentious- 
looking  saddle.  It  was  a  heavy  stock  saddle, 
with  German  silver  mountings  and  saddle  bags 
covered  with  black  bear  fur.  A  small  red  and 
black  Navajo  blanket  served  as  a  saddle  pad  and 
he  found  a  fine  Navajo  bridle,  too,  woven  of 
black  horsehair,  with  a  big  hand-hammered  silver 
buckle  on  each  cheek. 

He  had  the  old  Mexican  who  acted  as  caretaker 
for  the  ranch  drive  all  of  the  ranch  horses  into 

[155] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  corral,  and  chose  a  spirited  roan  mare  for  a 
saddle  animal.  He  always  rode  a  roan  horse 
when  he  could  get  one  because  a  roan  mustang 
has  more  spirit  than  one  of  any  other  colour. 

The  most  modern  part  of  his  equipment  was 
his  weapon.  He  did  not  want  to  carry  one 
openly,  so  he  had  purchased  a  small  but  highly 
efficient  automatic  pistol,  which  he  wore  in  a 
shoulder  scabbard  inside  his  shirt  and  under  his 
left  elbow. 

When  his  preparations  were  completed  he 
rode  straight  to  the  town  of  Alfego  where  the 
powerful  Solomon  had  his  establishment,  dis- 
mounted under  the  big  cottonwoods  and  strolled 
into  the  long,  dark  cluttered  adobe  room  which 
was  Solomon  Alfego's  store.  Three  or  four  Mex- 
ican clerks  were  waiting  upon  as  many  Mexican 
customers,  with  much  polite,  low-voiced  conversa- 
tion, punctuated  by  long  silences  while  the  cus- 
tomers turned  the  goods  over  and  over  in  their 
hands.  'Ramon's  entrance  created  a  slight  diver- 
sion. None  of  them  knew  him,  for  he  had  not 
been  in  that  country  for  years,  but  all  of  them 
recognized  that  he  was  a  person  of  weight  and 
importance.  Jrle  saluted  all  at  once,  lifting  his 
hat,  with  a  cordial  "Co  wo  lo  va,  amigos"  and 
then  devoted  himself  to  an  apparently  interested 
inspection  of  the  stock.  This,  if  conscientiously 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

done,  would  have  afforded  a  week's  occupation, 
for  Solomon  Alfego  served  as  sole  merchant  for 
a  large  territory  and  had  to  be  prepared  to  supply 
almost  every  human  want.  There  were  shelves 
of  dry  goods  and  of  hardware,  of  tobacco  and  of 
medicines.  In  the  centre  of  the  store  was 
a  long  rack,  heavily  laden  with  saddlery  and 
harness  of  all  kinds,  and  all  around  the  top  of  the 
room,  above  the  shelves,  ran  a  row  of  religious 
pictures,  including  popes,  saints,  and  cardinals, 
Mary  with  the  infant,  Christ  crucified  and  Christ 
bearing  the  cross,  all  done  in  bright  colours  and 
framed,  for  sale  at  about  three  dollars  each. 

It  was  not  long  before  word  of  the  stranger's 
arrival  reached  Alfego  in  his  little  office  behind 
the  store,  and  he  came  bustling  out,  beaming  and 
polite. 

"This  is  Senor  Solomon  Alfego?"  Ramon 
enquired  in  his  most  formal  Spanish. 

"I  am  Solomon  Alfego,"  replied  the  bulky  little 
man,  with  a  low  bow,  uand  what  can  I  do  for  the 
Senor?" 

"I  am  Ramon  Delcasar,"  Ramon  replied,  ex- 
tending his  hand  with  a  smile,  "and  it  may  be  that 
you  can  do  much  for  me." 

"Ah-h-h!"  breathed  Alfego,  with  another  bow, 
"Ramon  Delcasar!  And  I  knew  you  when  you 
were  un  muchachito"  (a  little  boy).  He  bent 

[157] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

over  and  measured  scant  two  feet  from  the  floor 
with  his  hand.  "My  house  is  yours.  I  am  at 
your  service.  Siempre!" 

The  two  strolled  about  the  store,  talking  of 
the  weather,  politics,  business,  the  old  days — 
everything  except  what  they  were  both  thinking 
about.  Alfego  opened  a  box  of  cigars,  and  having 
lit  a  couple  of  these,  they  went  out  on  the  long 
porch  and  sat  down  on  an  old  buggy  seat  to 
continue  the  conversation.  Alfego  admired 
Ramon's  horse  and  especially  his  silver-mounted 
saddle. 

"Ha!  you  like  the  saddle!''  Ramon  exclaimed 
in  well-stimulated  delight.  He  rose,  swiftly  un- 
did the  cinches,  and  dropped  saddle  and  blanket 
at  the  feet  of  his  host.  "It  is  yours!"  he  an- 
nounced. 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  Alfego  replied.  "Come ; 
I  wish  to  show  you  some  Navajo  blankets  I 
bought  the  other  day."  He  led  the  way  into  the 
store,  and  directed  one  of  his  clerks  to  bring  forth 
a  great  stack  of  the  heavy  Indian  weaves,  and 
began  turning  them  over.  They  were  blankets 
of  the  best  quality,  and  some  of  the  designs  in  red, 
black  and  grey  were  of  exceptional  beauty. 
Ramon  stood  smiling  while  his  host  turned  over 
one  blanket  after  another.  As  he  displayed  each 
one  he  turned  his  bright  pop-eyes  on  Ramon  with 
an  eager  enquiring  look.  At  last  when  he  had 

[158] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

seen  them  all,  Ramon  permitted  himself  to  pick  up 
and  examine  the  one  he  considered  the  best  with 
a  restrained  murmur  of  admiration. 

"You  like  it!"  exclaimed  Alfego  with  delight. 
"It  is  yours!" 

Mutual  good  feeling  having  thus  been  signal- 
ized in  the  traditional  Mexican  manner  by  an  ex- 
change of  gifts,  Alfego  now  showed  his  guest  all 
over  his  establishment.  It  included,  in  addition  to 
the  store,  several  ware  rooms  where  were  piled 
stinking  bales  of  sheep  and  goat  and  cow  hides, 
sacks  of  raw  wool  and  of  corn,  pelts  of  wild 
animals  and  bags  of  pinon  nuts,  and  of  beans,  all 
taken  from  the  Mexicans  in  trade.  Afterward 
Ramon  met  the  family,  of  patriarchal  proportions, 
including  an  astonishing  number  of  little  brown 
children  having  the  bright  eyes  and  well  developed 
noses  of  the  great  Solomon.  Then  came  supper, 
a  long  and  bountiful  feast,  at  which  great  quan- 
tities of  mutton,  chile,  and  beans  were  served. 

Having  thus  been  duly  impressed  with  the 
greatness  and  substance  of  his  host,  and  also  with 
his  friendly  attitude,  Ramon  was  led  into  the 
little  office,  offered  a  seat  and  a  fresh  cigar.  He 
knew  that  at  last  the  proper  time  had  come  for 
him  to  declare  himself. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  leaning  toward  Alfego 
confidentially,  "I  have  come  to  this  country  and  to 
you  for  a  great  purpose.  You  know  that  a  rich 

[159] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

gringo  has  been  buying  the  lands  of  the  poor 
people — my  people  and  yours — all  through  this 
country.  You  know  that  he  intends  to  own  all  of 
this  country — to  take  it  away  from  us  Mexicans. 
If  he  succeeds,  he  will  take  away  all  of  your 
business,  all  of  my  lands.  You  and  I  must  fight 
him  together.  Am  I  right?" 

Solomon  nodded  his  head  slowly,  watching 
Ramon  with  wide  bright  eyes. 

"y&rdadP*  he  pronounced  unctuously. 

UI  have  come,"  Ramon  went  on  more  boldly, 
"because  my  own  lands  are  in  danger,  but  also 
because  I  love  the  Mexican  people,  and  hate  the 
gringos!  Some  one  must  go  among  these  good 
people  and  warn  them  not  to  sell  their  lands,  not 
to  be  cheated  out  of  their  birthrights.  My  friend, 
I  have  come  here  to  do  that." 

"Bueno!"  exclaimed  Alfego.     "Muy  bueno!" 

"My  friend,  I  must  have  your  help." 

Ramon  said  this  as  impressively  as  possible,  and 
paused  expectantly,  but  as  Alfego  said  nothing,  he 
went  on,  gathering  his  wits  for  the  supreme  effort. 

"I  know  that  you  are  a  leader  in  the  great 
fraternity  of  the  penitent  brothers,  who  are  the 
best  and  most  pious  of  men.  My  friend,  I  wish 
to  become  one  of  them.  I  wish  to  mingle  my 
blood  with  theirs  and  with  the  blood  of  Christ, 
that  all  of  us  may  be  united  in  our  great  purpose 

[160] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

to  keep  this  country  for  the  Spanish  people,  who 
conquered  it  from  the  barbarians." 

Alfego  looked  very  grave,  puffed  his  cigar 
violently  three  times  and  spat  before  he  answered. 

"My  young  friend,"  (he  spoke  slowly  and 
solemnly)  uto  pour  out  your  blood  in  penance  and 
to  consecrate  your  body  to  Christ  is  a  great  thing 
to  do.  Have  you  meditated  deeply  upon  this 
step  ?  Are  you  sure  the  Lord  Jesus  has  called  you 
to  his  service?  And  what  assurance  have  I  that 
you  are  sincere  in  all  you  say,  that  if  I  make  you 
my  brother  in  the  blood  of  Christ,  you  will  truly 
be  as  a  brother  to  me?" 

Ramon  bowed  his  head. 

"I  have  thought  long  on  this,"  he  said  softly, 
"and  I  know  my  heart.  I  desire  to  be  a  blood 
brother  to  all  these,  my  people.  And  to  you — 
I  give  you  my  word  as  a  Delcasar  that  I  will 
serve  you  well,  that  I  will  be  as  a  brother  to  you." 

There  was  a  silence  during  which  Alfego  stared 
with  profound  gravity  at  the  ash  on  the  end  of 
his  cigar. 

"Have  you  heard,"  Ramon  went  on,  in  the 
same  soft  and  emotional  tone  of  voice,  "that  the 
Denver  and  Rio  Grande  Railroad  is  going  to 
build  a  line  through  the  San  Antonio  Valley?" 

Alfego,  without  altering  his  look  of  rapt  medi- 
tation, nodded  his  head  slowly. 
[161] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Do  you  suppose  that  you  will  gain  anything 
by  that,  if  this  gringo  gets  these  lands?"  Ramon 
went  on.  "You  know  that  you  will  not.  But  I 
will  make  you  my  partner.  And  I  will  give  you 
the  option  on  any  of  my  mountain  land  that  you 
may  wish  to  rent  for  sheep  range.  More  than 
that,  I  will  make  you  a  written  agreement  to  do 
these  things.  In  all  ways  we  will  be  as  brothers." 

"You  are  a  worthy  and  pious  young  man!" 
exclaimed  Solomon  Alfego,  rolling  his  eyes  up- 
ward, his  voice  vibrant  with  emotion.  "You 
shall  be  my  brother  in  the  blood  of  Christ." 


[162] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Ramon  went  to  the  Morada,  the  chapter  house 
of  the  penitentes,  alone  and  late  at  night,  for  all 
of  the  whippings  and  initiations  of  the  order, 
except  those  of  Holy  Week,  are  carried  on  in  the 
utmost  secrecy. 

The  Morada  stood  halfway  up  the  slope  north 
of  the  little  town,  at  the  elevation  where  the  tall 
yellow  pines  of  the  mountains  begin  to  replace 
the  scrubby  juniper  and  plnon  of  the  mesas  and 
foothills.  It  was  a  cool  moonlit  night  of  late 
summer.  A  light  west  wind  breathed  through 
the  trees,  making  the  massive  black  shadows  of 
the  juniper  bushes  faintly  alive.  As  he  toiled  up 
the  rocky  path  Ramon  heard  the  faraway  yap  and 
yodel  of  a  coyote,  and  the  still  more  distant 
answer  of  another  one.  From  the  valley  below 
came  the  intermittent  bay  of  a  cur,  inspired  by  the 
moon  and  his  wild  kin,  and  now  and  then  the  tiny 
silver  tinkle  of  a  goat  bell. 

The  Morada  stood  in  an  open  space.  It  was 
an  oblong  block  of  adobe,  and  gave  forth  neither 
light  nor  sound.  Ramon  stopped  a  little  way 
from  it  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree  and  lit  a  cigarette 
to  steady  his  nerves.  He  felt  now  for  the  first 

[163] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

time  something  of  the  mystery  and  terribleness  of 
this  barbaric  order  which  he  proposed  to  use  for 
his  purpose.  All  his  life  the  penitentes  had  been 
to  him  a  well-known  fact  of  life.  For  the  past 
week  he  had  spent  much  of  his  time  with  the 
maestro  de  novios  of  the  local  chapter,  a  wizened 
old  sheep  herder,  who  had  instructed  him  mo- 
notonously in  the  secrets  of  the  order,  almost  lull- 
ing him  to  sleep  with  his  endless  mumblings  of 
the  ritual  that  was  written  in  a  little  leather  book 
a  century  old.  He  had  learned  that  if  he  betrayed 
the  secrets  of  the  order,  he  would  be  buried 
alive  with  only  his  head  sticking  out  of  the 
ground,  so  that  the  ants  might  eat  his  face.  He 
had  been  informed  that  if  he  fell  ill  he  would  be 
taken  to  the  Morada  where  his  brothers  in  Christ 
would  pray  for  him,  and  seek  to  drive  the  devil 
out  of  his  body,  and  that  if  he  died,  they  would 
send  his  shoes  to  his  family  as  a  notice  of  that 
event;  and  would  bury  him  in  consecrated 
ground.  Some  of  the  things  he  had  learned  had 
bored  him  and  some  had  made  him  want  to  laugh, 
but  none  of  them  had  impressed  him,  as  they 
were  intended  to  do,  with  the  might  and  dignity 
of  the  ancient  order. 

He  was  impressed  now  as  he  stood  before  this 
dark  still  house  where  a  dozen  ignorant  fanatics 
waited  to  take  his  blood  for  what  was  to  them  a 
holy  purpose.  He  knew  that  this  Morada  was  a 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

very  old  one.  He  thought  of  all  the  true  peni- 
tents who  had  knocked  for  admission  at  its  door 
and  had  gone  through  its  bloody  ordeal  with  a 
zeal  of  madness  which  had  enabled  them  to  cry 
loudly  for  blows  and  more  blows  until  they  fell 
insensible.  He  tried  to  imagine  their  state  of 
mind,  but  he  could  not.  He  was  of  their  race 
and  a  growth  of  the  same  soil,  but  an  alien  civili- 
zation had  touched  him  and  sundered  him  from 
them,  yet  without  taking  him  for  its  own.  He 
could  only  nerve  himself  to  face  this  ordeal  be- 
cause it  would  serve  his  one  great  purpose. 

As  he  stood  there,  a  curious  half-irrelevant 
thought  came  into  his  mind.  He  knew  that  the 
marks  they  would  make  on  his  back  would  be 
permanent.  He  had  seen  the  long  rough  scars 
on  the  backs  of  sheep-herders,  stripped  to  the 
waist  for  the  hot  work  of  shearing.  And  he 
wondered  how  he  would  explain  these  strange 
scars  to  Julia.  He  imagined  her  discovering 
them  with  her  long  dainty  hands,  her  round  white 
arms.  A  great  longing  surged  up  in  him  that 
seemed  to  weaken  the  very  tissues  of  his  body. 
He  shook  himself,  threw  away  his  cigarette,  went 
to  the  heavy  wooden  door  and  knocked. 

Now  he;  spoke  a  rigamarole  in  Spanish  which 
had  been  taught  him  by  rote. 

"God  knocks  at  this  mission's  door  for  His 
clemency,"  he  called. 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

From  within  came  a  deep-voiced  chorus,  the 
first  sound  he  had  heard  from  the  house,  seeming 
weirdly  to  be  the  voice  of  the  house  itself. 

"Penance,  penance,  which  seeks  salvation!"  it 
chanted. 

"Saint  Peter  will  open  to  me  the  gate,  bathing 
me  with  the  light,  in  the  name  of  Mary,  with  the 
seal  of  Jesus,"  Ramon  went  on,  repeating  as  he 
had  learned.  "I  ask  this  confraternity.  Who 
gives  this  house  light?" 

"Jesus,"  answered  the  chorus  within. 

"Who  fills  it  with  joy?" 

"Mary." 

"Who  preserves  it  with  faith?" 

"Joseph!" 

The  door  opened  and  Ramon  entered  the 
chapel  room  of  the  Morada.  It  was  lighted  by  a 
single  candle,  which  revealed  dimly  the  rough 
earthen  walls,  the  low  roof  raftered  with  round 
pine  logs,  the  wooden  benches  and  the  altar, 
covered  with  black  cloth.  This  was  decorated 
with  figures  of  the  skull  and  cross-bones  cut  from 
white  cloth.  A  human  skull  stood  on  either  side 
of  it,  and  a  small  wooden  crucifix  hung  on  the  wall 
above  it.  The  solitary  candle — an  ordinary 
tallow  one  in  a  tin  holder — stood  before  this. 

The  men  were  merely  dark  human  shapes. 
The  light  did  not  reveal  their  faces.  They  said 
nothing  to  Ramon.  He  could  scarcely  believe 
[166] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

that  these  were  the  same  good-natured  fielados 
he  had  known  by  day.  Indeed  they  were  not  the 
same,  but  were  now  merely  units  of  this  organiza- 
tion which  held  them  in  bondage  of  fear  and  awe. 

One  of  them  took  Ramon  silently  by  the  arm 
and  led  him  through  a  low  door  into  the  other 
room  which  was  the  Morada  proper.  This 
room  was  supposed  never  to  be  entered  except  by 
a  member  of  the  order  or  by  a  candidate.  It  was 
small  and  low  as  the  other,  furnished  only  with  a 
few  benches  about  the  wall,  and  lighted  by  a 
couple  of  candles  on  a  small  table.  A  very  old 
and  tarnished  oil  painting  of  Mary  with  the  Babe 
hung  at  one  end  of  it.  All  the  way  around  the 
room,  hanging  from  pegs  driven  into  the  wall, 
was  a  row  of  the  broad  heavy  braided  lashes  of 
amole  weed,  called  disciplines,  used  in  Holy 
Week,  and  of  the  blood-stained  drawers  worn  on 
that  occasion  by  the  flagellants. 

Still  in  complete  silence  Ramon  was  forced  to 
his  knees  by  two  of  the  men,  who  quickly  stripped 
him  to  the  waist.  Beside  him  stood  a  tall  power- 
fully-built Mexican  with  his  right  arm  bared.  In 
his  hand  he  held  a  triangular  bit  of  white  quartz, 
cleverly  chipped  to  a  cutting  edge.  This  man 
was  the  sangredory  whose  duty  it  was  to  place  the 
seal  of  the  order  upon  the  penitent's  back.  His 
office  required  no  little  skill,  for  he  had  to  make 
three  cuts  the  whole  length  of  the  back  and  three 

[167] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  width,  tearing  through  the  skin  so  as  to  leave 
a  permanent  scar,  but  not  deep  enough  to  injure 
the  muscle.  Ramon,  glancing  up,  saw  the  gleam 
of  the  candle  light  on  the  white  quartz,  and  also 
in  the  eyes  of  the  man,  which  were  bright  with 
eagerness. 

Now  came  the  supreme  struggle  with  himself. 
How  could  he  go  through  with  this  ugly  agony? 
He  longed  to  leap  to  his  feet  and  fight  these 
ignorant  louts,  who  were  going  to  mangle  him 
and  beat  him  for  their  own  amusement.  He 
held  himself  down  with  all  his  will,  striving  to 
think  of  the  girl,  to  hold  his  purpose  before  his 
mind,  to  endure .  .  . 

He  felt  the  hand  of  the  sangredor  upon  his 
neck,  and  gritted  his  teeth.  The  man's  grip  was 
heavy,  hot  and  firm.  A  flash  of  pain  shot  up  and 
down  his  back  with  lightning  speed,  as  though  a 
red  hot  poker  had  been  laid  upon  it.  Again  and 
again  and  again!  Six  times  in  twice  as  many 
seconds  the  deft  flint  ripped  his  skin,  and  he  fell 
forward  upon  his  hands,  faint  and  sick,  as  he 
felt  his  own  blood  welling  upon  his  back  and 
trickling  in  warm  rivulets  between  his  ribs. 

But  this  was  not  all.  To  qualify,  he  knew,  he 
must  call  for  the  lash  of  his  own  free  will. 

"For  the  love  of  God,"  he  uttered  painfully, 
as  he  had  been  taught,  "the  three  meditations  of 
the  passion  of  our  Lord/' 

[168] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

On  his  torn  back  a  long  black  snake  whip  came 
down,  wielded  with  merciless  force.  But  he  felt 
the  full  agony  of  the  first  blow  only.  The  second 
seemed  faint,  and  the  third  sent  him  plunging 
downward  through  a  red  mist  into  black  nothing- 
ness. 


[169] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  few  days  later  one  bright  morning  Ramon 
was  sitting  in  the  sun  before  the  door  of  his 
friend,  Francisco  Guiterrez,  feeling  still  some- 
what sore,  but  otherwise  surprisingly  well.  Gu- 
iterrez, a  young  sheep-herder,  held  the  position 
of  coadjutor  of  the  local  penitente  chapter,  and 
\  one  of  his  duties  as  such  was  to  take  the  penitent 
to  his  house  and  care  for  him  after  the  initiation. 
He  had  washed  Ramon's  wounds  in  a  tea  made 
by  boiling  Romero  weed.  This  was  a  remedy 
which  the  penitentes  had  used  for  centuries,  and 
its  efficacy  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  Ramon's 
cuts  had  begun  to  heal  at  once,  and  that  he  had 
had  very  little  fever. 

For  a  couple  of  days  Ramon  had  been  forced 
to  lie  restlessly  in  the  only  bed  of  the  Guiterrez 
establishment.  The  Senora  Guiterrez,  a  pretty 
buxom  young  Mexican  woman,  had  fed  him  on 
atole  gruel  and  on  all  of  the  eggs  which  her  small 
flock  of  scrub  hens  produced;  the  seven  little  dirty 
brown  Guiterrez  children  had  come  in  to  marvel 
at  him  with  their  fingers  in  their  mouths;  the 
Guiterrez  goats  and  dogs  and  chickens  had 

[170] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

wandered  in  and  out  of  the  room  in  a  compan- 
ionable way,  as  though  seeking  to  make  him  feel 
at  ease;  and  Guiterrez  himself  had  spent  his 
evenings  sitting  beside  Ramon,  smoking  cigarettes 
and  talking. 

This  time  of  idleness  had  not  been  wholly  wast- 
ed, either,  for  it  had  come  out  in  the  course  of 
conversation  that  Guiterrez  had  been  offered  a 
thousand  dollars  for  his  place  by  a  man  whom  he 
did  not  know,  but  whom  Ramon  had  easily  identi- 
fied as  an  agent  of  MacDougall.  Tempted  by 
an  amount  which  he  could  scarcely  conceive, 
Guiterrez  was  thinking  seriously  of  accepting  the 
offer. 

Now  that  he  had  won  over  Alfego  and  had 
gotten  the  influence  of  the  penitentes  on  his  side, 
Ramon's  one  remaining  object  was  to  defeat  just 
such  deals  as  this,  which  MacDougall  already 
had  under  way.  He  intended  to  stir  up  feeling 
against  the  gringos,  and  to  persuade  the  Mexi- 
cans not  to  sell.  Later,  such  lands  as  he  needed 
in  order  to  control  the  right-of-way,  he  would 
gain  by  lending  money  and  taking  mortgages. 
But  he  did  not  intend  to  cheat  any  one.  Such 
Mexicans  as  he  had  to  oust  from  their  lands,  he 
would  locate  elsewhere.  He  was  filled  with  a 
large  generosity,  and  with  a  real  love  for' these, 
his  people.  He  meant  to  dominate  this  country, 

[171] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

but  his  pride  demanded  that  no  one  should  be 
poor  or  hungry  in  his  domain.  So  now  he  argued 
the  matter  to  Guiterrez  with  real  sincerity. 

"A  thousand  dollars  ?  For  Dios,  man !  Don't 
you  know  that  this  place  is  worth  many  thousand 
dollars  to  you?" 

"How  can  it  be  worth  many  thousand?" 
Guiterrez  demanded.  "What  have  I  here?  A 
few  acres  of  chile  and  corn,  a  little  hay,  some 
range  for  my  goats,  a  few  cherry  trees,  a  house . 
.  .  .  Many  thousands?  No."  ! 

"You  have  here  a  home,  amigo"  Ramon  re- 
minded him.  "Do  you  know  how  long  a  thou- 
sand dollars  would  support  you?  A  year,  per- 
haps. Then  you  would  have  to  work  for  other 
men  the  rest  of  your  life.  Here  you  are  free 
and  independent." 

Guiterrez  said  nothing,  but  he  had  obviously 
received  a  new  idea,  and  was  impressed.  Ramon 
never  returned  to  the  direct  argument,  but  he 
missed  no  chance  to  stimulate  Guiterrez's  pride 
in  his  establishment. 

"This  is  a  good  little  house  you  have  amigo" 
he  would  observe.  And  Guiterrez  would  tell 
him  that  the  house  had  been  built  by  his  grand- 
father, but  that  its  walls  were  as  firm  as  ever, 
and  that  he  had  been  intending  for  several  years 
to  plaster  it,  but  had  never  gotten  time.  Before 
[172] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

he  was  out  of  bed,  Ramon  was  reasonably  sure 
that  Guiterrez  would  never  sell. 

The  house  was  indeed  charmingly  situated  on  a 
hillside  at  the  foot  of  which  a  little  clear  trout 
stream,  called  Rio  Gallinas,  chuckled  over  the 
bright  pebbles  in  its  bed  and  ran  to  hide  in  thick- 
ets of  willow. 

Sitting  on  the  portal,  which  ran  the  length  of 
the  house  and  consisted  of  a  projection  of  the  roof 
supported  by  rough  pine  logs,  Ramon  could  look 
down  the  canyon  to  where  it  widened  into  a  little 
valley  that  lost  itself  in  the  vast  levels  of  the 
mesa.  There  thirsty  sands  swallowed  the  stream 
and  not  a  sprig  of  green  marred  the  harmony  of 
grey  and  purple  swimming  in  vivid  light,  reaching 
away  to  the  horizon  where  faint  blue  mountains 
hung  in  drooping  lines. 

By  turning  his  head,  Ramon  could  look  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountains  whence  the  stream  is- 
sued through  a  narrow  canyon,  with  steep,  forested 
ridges  on  either  side,  and  little  level  glades 
along  the  water,  set  with  tall,  conical  blue  spruce 
trees,  pines  with  their  warm  red  boles,  and  little 
clumps  of  aspen  with  gleaming  white  stems,  and 
trembling  leaves  of  mingled  gold  and  green. 

Ramon  spent  many  hours  with  his  back  against 
the  wall,  his  knees  drawn  up  under  his  chin,  Mexi- 
can fashion,  smoking  and  vaguely  dreaming  of 

[173] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  girl  he  loved  and  of  the  things  he  would  do. 
The  vast  sun  drenched  landscape  before  him  was 
too  much  a  part  of  his  life,  too  intimate  a  thing 
for  him  to  appreciate  its  beauty,  but  after  his 
struggles  with  doubt  and  desire,  it  filled  him  with 
an  unaccountable  contentment.  Its  warmth  and 
brightness,  its  unchanging  serenity,  its  ceaseless 
soft  voices  of  wind  and  water,  lulled  his  mind  and 
comforted  his  senses.  The  country  was  like  some 
great  purring  creature  that  let  him  lie  in  its 
bosom  and  filled  his  body  with  the  warm  steady 
throb  of  its  untroubled  strength. 

After  a  week  of  recuperation,  he  bought  a 
horse  from  Guiterrez  for  a  pack  animal,  loaded 
it  with  bedding  and  provisions  and  rode  away 
into  the  mountains.  His  task  was  now  to  find 
other  men  who  had  fallen  under  the  influence  of 
MacDougall,  and  to  persuade  them  not  to  sell 
their  lands.  Some  of  them  would  be  at  their 
homes,  but  others  would  be  with  the  sheep  herds, 
scattered  here  and  there  in  the  high  country. 
He  faced  long  days  of  mountain  wandering,  and 
for  all  that  he  longed  to  be  done  with  his  task, 
this  part  of  it  was  sweet  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

These  were  days  of  power  and  success,  days  of 
a  glamour  that  lingered  long  in  his  mind.  Be- 
yond a  doubt  he  was  destroying  MacDougall's 
plan  and  realizing  his  own.  Sometimes  he  met 
a  surly  Mexican  who  would  not  listen  to  him,  but 
nearly  always  he  won  the  man  over  in  the  end. 
He  was  amazed  at  his  own  resourcefulness  and 
eloquence.  It  seemed  as  though  some  inhibition 
in  him  had  been  broken  down,  some  magical  elixir 
poured  into  his  imagination.  He  found  that  he 
could  literally  take  a  sheep  camp  by  storm,  enter- 
ing into  the  life  of  the  men,  telling  them  stories, 
singing  them  songs,  passing  out  presents  of 
tobacco  and  whisky,  often  delivering  a  wildly 
applauded  harangue  on  the  necessity  for  all  Mexi- 
cans to  act  together  against  the  gringos,  who 
would  otherwise  soon  own  the  country.  Never 
once  did  he  think  of  the  incongruity  of  thus  fan- 
ning the  flames  of  race  hatred  for  the  love  of  a 
girl  with  grey  eyes  and  yellow  hair. 

He  did  not  always  reach  a  house  or  a  sheep 
camp  at  night.  Many  a  time  he  camped  alone, 
catching  trout  for  his  supper  from  a  mountain 
stream,  and  going  to  sleep  to  the  lonely  music  of 

[175] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

running  water  in  a  wilderness.  At  such  times 
many  a  man  would  have  lost  faith  in  himself, 
would  have  feared  his  crimes  and  lost  his  hopes. 
But  to  Ramon  this  loneliness  was  an  old  friend. 
Like  all  who  have  lived  much  out-of-doors  he  was 
at  heart  a  pantheist,  and  felt  more  at  peace  and 
unity  with  wild  nature  than  ever  he  had  with  men. 
But  there  was  one  such  night  when  he  felt 
troubled.  As  he  rode  up  the  Tusas  Canyon  at 
twilight,  a  sense  of  insecurity  came  over  him, 
amounting  almost  to  fear.  He  had  had  a  some- 
what similar  feeling  once  when  a  panther  had 
trailed  him  on  a  winter  night.  Now,  as  then,  he 

I  had  no  idea  what  it  was  that  menaced  him;  he 
was  simply  warned  by  that  sixth  sense  which 
belongs  to  all  wild  things,  and  to  men  in  whom 
there  remains  something  of  the  feral.  His  horses 
shared  his  unrest.  When  he  picketed  them,  just 
before  dark,  they  fed  uneasily,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  stand  like  statues  with  lifted  heads,  testing 
the  wind  with  their  nostrils,  moving  their  ears  to 
catch  some  sound  beyond  human  perception. 

When  he  had  eaten  his  supper  and  made  his 
bed,  Ramon  took  the  little  automatic  revolver  out 
of  its  scabbard  and  went  down  the  canyon  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  slipping  along  in  the  shadow  of 
the  brush  that  lined  the  banks  of  the  stream. 
This  was  necessary  because  a  half-moon  made  the 
open  glades  bright.  He  paused  and  peered  a 

[176] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

dozen  times.  So  cautious  were  his  movements 
that  he  came  within  forty  feet  of  a  drinking  deer, 
and  was  badly  startled  when  it  bounded  away  with 
a  snort  and  a  smashing  of  brush.  But  he  saw 
nothing  dangerous  and  went  back  to  his  camp  and 
to  bed.  There  he  lay  awake  for  an  hour,  still 
troubled,  oppressed  by  a  vague  feeling  of  the 
littleness  and  insecurity  of  human  life. 

A  long,  rippling  snort  of  fear  from  his  saddle 
horse,  picketed  near  his  bed,  awakened  him  and 
probably  saved  his  life.  When  he  opened  his 
eyes,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  directly 
over  him.  He  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  man 
lifted  his  arms,  swinging  upward  a  heavy  club. 
With  quick  presence  of  mind,  Ramon  jerked  the 
blankets  and  the  heavy  canvas  tarpaulin  about  his 
head,  at  the  same  time  rolling  over.  The  club 
came  down  with  crushing  force  on  his  right 
shoulder.  He  continued  to  roll  and  flounder  with 
all  his  might,  going  down  a  sharp  slope  toward 
the  creek  which  was  only  a  few  yards  away. 
Twice  more  he  felt  the  club,  once  on  his  arm  and 
once  on  his  ribs,  but  his  head  escaped  and  the 
heavy  blankets  protected  his  body. 

The  next  thing  he  knew,  he  had  gone  over  the 
bank  of  the  creek,  which  was  several  feet  high  in 
that  place,  and  lay  in  the  shallow  icy  water. 
Meantime  he  had  gotten  his  hand  on  the  automatic 
pistol.  He  now  jerked  upright  and  fired  at  the 

[177] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

form  of  his  assailant,  which  bulked  above  him. 
The  man  disappeared.  For  a  moment  Ramon  sat 
still.  He  heard  footsteps,  and  something  like  a 
grunt  or  a  groan.  Then  he  extricated  himself 
from  the  cold,  sodden  blankets,  climbed  upon  the 
bank,  and  began  cautiously  searching  about,  with 
his  weapon  ready.  He  found  the  club — a  heavy 
length  of  green  spruce — and  put  his  hand  acciden- 
tally on  something  wet,  which  he  ascertained  by 
smelling  it  to  be  blood. 

He  was  shivering  with  cold  and  badly  bruised 
in  several  places,  but  he  was  afraid  to  build  a  fire. 
In  case  his  enemy  were  not  badly  injured  or  had  a 
companion,  that  would  have  been  risking  another 
attack.  He  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  spruce, 
stamping  his  feet  and  rubbing  himself,  acutely  un- 
comfortable, waiting  for  daylight  and  wondering 
what  this  attack  meant.  He  doubted  whether 
MacDougall  would  have  countenanced  such  tac- 
tics, but  it  might  well  have  been  an  agent  of  Mac- 
Dougall acting  on  his  own  responsibility.  Or  it 
might  have  been  some  one  sent  by  old  Archulera. 
Then,  too,  there  were  many  poor  connections  of 
the  Delcasar  family  who  would  profit  by  his  death. 

As  he  stood  there  in  the  dark,  shivering  and 
miserable,  the  idea  of  death  was  not  hard  for  him 
to  conceive.  He  realized  that  but  for  the  snort 
of  the  saddle  horse  he  would  now  be  lying  under 
the  tree  with  the  top  of  his  head  crushed  in.  The 

[178] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

man  would  probably  have  dragged  his  body  into 
the  thick  timber  and  left  it.  There  he  would  have 
lain  and  rotted.  Or  perhaps  the  coyotes  would 
have  eaten  him  and  the  buzzards  afterward  picked 
his  bones.  He  shuddered.  Despite  his  acute 
misery,  life  had  never  seemed  more  desirable. 
He  thought  of  sunlight  and  warmth,  of  good  food 
and  of  the  love  of  women,  and  these  things  seemed 
more  sweet  than  ever  before.  He  realized,  for 
the  first  time,  too,  that  he  faced  many  dangers 
and  that  the  chance  of  death  walked  with  him  all 
the  time.  He  resolved  fiercely  that  he  would 
beat  all  his  enemies,  that  he  would  live  and  have 
his  desires  which  were  so  sweet  to  him. 

Daylight  came  at  last,  showing  him  first  the 
rim  of  the  mountain  serrated  with  spruce  tops, 
and  then  lighting  the  canyon,  revealing  his  dis- 
ordered camp  and  his  horses  grazing  quietly  in 
the  open.  He  went  immediately  and  examined 
the  ground  where  the  struggle  had  taken  place. 
A  plain  trail  of  blood  lead  away  from  the  place, 
as  he  had  expected.  He  formed  a  plan  of  action 
immediately. 

First  he  made  a  great  fire,  dried  and  warmed 
himself,  cooked  and  ate  his  breakfast,  drinking  a 
full  pint  of  hot  coffee.  Then  he  rolled  up  all  his 
belongings,  hid  them  in  the  bushes,  and  picketed 
his  horses  in  a  side  canyon  where  the  grass  was 
good.  When  these  preparations  were  complete, 

[179] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

he  took  the  trail  of  blood  and  followed  it  with  the 
utmost  care.  He  carried  his  weapon  cocked  in 
his  hand,  and  always  before  he  went  around  a 
bend  in  the  canyon,  or  passed  through  a  clump  of 
trees,  he  paused  and  looked  long  and  carefully, 
like  an  animal  stalking  dangerous  prey. 

At  last,  from  the  cover  of  some  willows,  he  saw 
a  man  sitting  beside  the  creek.  The  man  was 
half-naked,  and  was  binding  up  his  leg  with  some 
strips  torn  from  his  dirty  shirt.  He  was  a  Mex- 
\  I  ican  of  the  lowest  and  most  brutal  type,  with  a 
'  swarthy  skin,  black  hair  and  a  bullet-shaped  head. 
Ramon  walked  toward  him. 

"Buenas  Dias,  amigo"  he  saluted. 

The  man  looked  up  with  eyes  full  of  patient 
suffering,  like  the  eyes  of  a  hurt  animal.  He  did 
not  seem  either  surprised  or  frightened.  He 
nodded  and  went  on  binding  up  his  leg. 

Ramon  watched  him  a  minute.  He  saw  that 
the  man  was  weak  from  loss  of  blood.  There 
was  a  great  patch  of  dried  blood  on  the  ground 
beside  him,  now  beginning  to  flake  and  curl  in 
the  sun. 

"I  will  come  back  in  a  minute,  friend,"  he  said. 

He  went  back  to  his  camp,  saddled  his  horses, 
putting  some  food  in  the  saddle  pockets.  When 
he  returned,  the  Mexican  sat  in  exactly  the  same 
place  with  his  back  against  a  rock  and  his  legs  and 

[180] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

arms  inert.  Ramon  fried  bacon  and  made  coffee 
for  him.  He  had  to  help  the  man  put  the  food  in 
his  mouth  and  hold  a  cup  for  him  to  drink. 
Afterward,  with  great  difficulty,  he  loaded  the 
man  on  his  saddle  horse,  where  he  sat  heavily, 
clutching  the  pommel  with  both  hands,  Ramon 
mounted  the  pack  horse  bareback. 

"Where  do  you  live,  friend?"  Ramon  asked. 

"Tusas,"  the  Mexican  replied,  naming  a  little 
village  ten  miles  down  the  canyon. 

They  exchanged  no  other  words  until  they  came 
within  sight  of  the  group  of  adobe  houses.  Then 
Ramon  stopped  his  horse  and  turned  to  the  man. 

"You  were  hunting,"  he  told  him  slowly  and 
impressively,  "and  you  dropped  your  gun  and  shot 
yourself.  Sabes?" 

The  man  nodded. 

"How  much  were  you  paid  to  kill  me,  friend?" 
Ramon  then  asked. 

The  man  looked  at  the  pommel  of  the  saddle, 
and  his  swarthy  face  darkened  with  a  heavy  flush. 

"One  hundred  dollars,"  he  admitted.  "I 
needed  the  money  to  christen  a  child.  Could  I 
let  my  child  go  to  hell?  But  I  did  not  mean  to 
kill  you.  Only  to  beat  you,  so  you  would  go  away. 
Do  not  ask  who  sent  me,  for  the  love  of 
God.  .  .  ." 

"I  ask  nothing  more,  friend,"  Ramon  assured 

[181] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

him.  "And  since  you  were  to  have  a  hundred 
dollars  for  making  me  leave  the  country,  here  is  a 
hundred  dollars  for  not  succeeding." 

Both  of  them  laughed.  Ramon  then  rode  on 
and  delivered  the  man  to  his  excited  and  grateful 
wife.  He  went  back  to  his  camp  very  weary  and 
sore,  but  feeling  that  he  had  done  an  excellent 
stroke  of  work  for  his  purpose. 


[182] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

After  this  occurrence  his  success  among  the 
humbler  Mexicans  was  more  marked  than  ever, 
but  some  of  the  men  of  property  who  had  been 
subsidized  by  MacDougall  were  not  so  easily  won 
over.  Such  a  case  was  that  of  old  Pedro  Alcatraz 
who  owned  a  little  store  in  the  town  of  Vallecitos, 
a  bit  of  land  and  a  few  thousand  sheep.  Alcatraz 
was  a  tall  boney  old  man,  and  was  of  nearly  pure 
\  Navajo  Indian  blood,  as  one  could  tell  by  the 
queer  crinkled  character  of  his  beard  and  mous- 
tache, which  were  like  those  of  a  chinaman.  He 
was  simple  and  direct  like  an  Indian,  too,  lacking 
the  Mexican  talent  for  lying  and  artifice.  In  his 
own  town  he  was  a  petty  czar,  like  Alfego,  but  on 
a  much  smaller  scale.  By  reason  of  being 
Hermano  Mayor  of  the  local  penitente  chapter, 
and  of  having  most  of  the  people  in  his  own  neigh- 
bourhood in  debt  to  him,  he  had  considerable 
power.  He  was  advising  men  to  sell  their  lands, 
and  was  lending  more  money  on  land  than  it  was 
reasonable  to  suppose  he  owned.  Beyond  a 
doubt,  he  had  been  won  by  MacDougall's  dollars. 
Ramon  found  Alcatraz  unresponsive.  The 
old  man  listened  to  a  long  harangue  on  the  subject 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

of  the  race  issue  without  a  word  of  reply,  and! 
without  looking  up.  Ramon  then  played  what 
should  have  been  his  strongest  card. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "you  may  not  know  it, 
but  I  am  your  brother  in  the  blood  of  Christ. 
Do  I  not  then  deserve  better  of  you  than  a  gringo 
who  is  trying  to  take  this  country  away  from  the 
Mexican  people?" 

"Yes,"  the  old  man  answered  quietly,  "I  know 
you  are  a  penitente,  and  I  know  why.  Do  you 
think  that  I  am  a  fool  like  these  pelados  that  herd 
my  sheep?  You  wear  the  scars  of  a  penitente 
because  you  think  it  will  help  you  to  make  money 
and  to  do  what  you  want.  You  are  just  like 
MacDougall,  except  that  he  uses  money  and  you 
use  words.  A  poor  man  can  only  choose  his 
masters,  and  for  my  part  I  have  more  use  for 
money  than  for  words."  So  saying,  the  blunt  old 
savage  walked  to  the  other  end  of  his  store  and 
began  showing  a  Mexican  woman  some  shawls. 

Ramon  went  away,  breathing  hard  with  rage, 
slapping  his  quirt  against  his  boots.  He  would 
show  that  old  cabron  who  was  boss  in  these 
mountains! 

He  went  immediately  and  hired  the  little  adobe 
hall  which  is  found  in  every  Mexican  town  of 
more  than  a  hundred  inhabitants,  and  made  prep- 
arations to  give  a  baile. 

To  give  a  dance  is  the  surest  and  simplest  way 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

to  win  popularity  in  a  Mexican  town,  and  Ramon 
spared  no  expense  to  make  this  affair  a  success. 
He  sent  forty  miles  across  the  mountains  for  two 
fiddlers  to  help  out  the  blind  man  who  was  the 
only  local  musician.  He  arranged  a  feast,  and  in 
a  back  room  he  installed  a  small  keg  of  native 
wine  and  one  of  beer. 

The  invitation  was  general  and  every  one  who 
could  possibly  reach  the  place  in  a  day's  journey 
came.  The  women  wore  for  the  most  part  calico 
dresses,  bright  in  colour  and  generous  in  volume, 
heavily  starched  and  absolutely  devoid  of  fit. 
Their  brown  faces  were  heavily  powdered,  pro- 
ducing in  some  of  the  darker  ones  a  purplish  tint, 
which  was  ghastly  in  the  light  of  the  oil  lamps. 
Some  of  the  younger  girls  were  comely  despite 
their  crude  toilets,  with  soft  skins,  ripe  breasts, 
mild  dark  heiferjike  eyes,  and  pretty  teeth  show- 
ing in  delighted  grins.  The  men  wore  the  cheap 
ready-made  suits  which  have  done  so  much  to 
make  Americans  look  alike  everywhere,  but  they 
achieved  a  degree  of  originality  by  choosing 
brighter  colours  than  men  generally  wear,  being 
especially  fond  of  brilliant  electric  blues  and  rich 
browns.  Their  broad  but  often  handsome  faces 
were  radiant  with  smiles,  and  their  thick  black 
hair  was  wetted  and  greased  into  shiny  order. 

The  dance  started  with  difficulty,  despite  symp- 
toms of  eagerness  on  all  hands.  Bashful  youths 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

stalled  and  crowded  in  the  doorway  like  a  log  jam 
in  the  river.  Bashful  girls,  seated  all  around  the 
room,  nudged  and  tittered  and  then  became 
solemn  and  self-conscious.  Each  number  was 
preceded  by  a  march,  several  times  around  the 
room,  which  was  sedate  and  formal  in  the  extreme. 
The  favourite  dance  was  a  fast,  hopping  waltz, 
in  which  the  swain  seized  his  partner  firmly  in  both 
hands  under  the  arms  and  put  her  through  a 
vigorous  test  of  wind  and  agility.  The  floor  was 
rough  and  sanded,  and  the  rasping  of  feet  almost 
drowned  the  music.  There  were  long  Virginia 
reels,  led  with  peremptory  dash  by  a  master  of 
ceremonies,  full  of  grace  and  importance. 
Swarthy  faces  were  bedewed  with  sweat  and  dark 
eyes  glowed  with  excitement,  but  there  was  never 
the  slightest  relaxation  of  the  formalism  of  the 
affair.  For  this  dance  in  an  earthen  hovel  on  a 
plank  floor  was  the  degenerate  but  lineal  descend- 
ant of  the  splendid  and  formal  balls  which  the 
Dons  had  held  in  the  old  days,  when  New  Spain 
belonged  to  its  proud  and  wealthy  conquerors; 
it  was  the  wistful  and  grotesque  remnant  of  a 
dying  order. 

Ramon  had  a  vague  realization  of  this  fact  as 
he  watched  the  affair.  It  stirred  a  sort  of  sen- 
timental pity  in  him.  But  he  threw  off  that 
feeling,  he  had  work  to  do.  He  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  the  thing,  dancing  with  every  woman  on 

[186] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

the  floor.  He  took  the  men  in  groups  to  the 
back  room  and  treated  them.  He  missed  no 
opportunity  to  get  in  a  word  against  the  gringos, 
and  incidentally  against  those  Mexicans  who  be- 
trayed their  fellows  by  advising  them  to  sell  their 
lands.  He  never  mentioned  Alcatraz  by  name, 
but  he  made  it  clear  enough  to  whom  he  referred. 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  all  were  mellowed 
by  drink  and  excited  by  dancing,  he  gained  the 
attention  of  the  gathering  on  the  pretext  of  an- 
nouncing a  special  dance,  and  boldly  gave  a  har- 
angue in  which  he  urged  all  Mexicans  to  stick 
together  against  the  gringos,  and  above  all  not 
to  sell  their  homes  which  their  fathers  had  won 
from  the  barbarians,  and  were  the  foundations  of 
their  prosperity  and  freedom. 

"Remember,"  he  urged  them  in  a  burst  of  el- 
oquence that  surprised  himself,  "that  in  your  veins 
I  is  the  blood  of  conquerors — blood  which  was 
poured  out  on  these  hills  and  valleys  to  win  them 
from  the  Indians,  precious  blood  which  has  made 
this  land  priceless  to  you  for  all  time !" 

His  speech  was  greeted  with  a  burst  of  applause 
unquestionably  spontaneous.  It  filled  him  with 
a  sense  of  power  that  was  almost  intoxicating. 
In  the  town  he  might  be  neglected,  despised, 
picked  for  an  easy  mark,  but  here  among  his 
own  people  he  was  a  ruler  and  leader  by  birth. 

The  most  important  result  of  the  baile  was  that 

[187] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

it  won  over  the  stubborn  Alcatraz.  He  did  not 
attend  it,  but  he  knew  what  happened  there.  He 
realized  that  advice  in  favour  of  selling  land  would 
not  be  popular  in  that  section  for  a  long  time, 
and  he  acknowledged  his  defeat  by  inviting  Ramon 
to  dinner  at  his  house,  and  driving  a  shrewd 
bargain  with  him,  whereby  he  gave  his  influence 
in  exchange  for  certain  grazing  privileges. 

On  his  way  home  a  few  days  later  Ramon 
looked  back  at  the  mountains  with  the  feeling 
that  they  belonged  to  him  by  right  of  conquest. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  week  later  Ramon  was  driving  across  the 
mesa  west  of  town,  bound  for  the  state  capital. 
He  was  following  the  same  route  that  Diego 
Delcasar  had  followed  on  the  day  of  his  death, 
and  he  passed  within  a  few  miles  of  Archulera's 
ranch;  but  no  thought  either  of  his  uncle  or  of 
Archulera  entered  his  mind.  For  in  his  pocket 
was  a  letter  consisting  of  a  single  sentence  hastily 
scrawled  in  a  large  round  upright  hand  on  laven- 
der-scented note  paper.  The  sentence  was: 

"Meet  you  at  the  southwest  corner  of  the  Plaza 
Tuesday  at  seven  thirty. 

"Love, 

UJ.  R." 

A  great  deal  of  trouble  and  anxiety  had  pre- 
ceded the  receipt  of  that  message.  First  he  had 
written  her  a  letter  that  was  unusually  long  and 
exuberant  for  him,  telling  her  of  his  success  and 
that  now  he  was  ready  to  come  and  get  her  in 
accordance  with  their  agreement,  suggesting  ;a 
time  and  place.  Three  days  of  cumulative  doubt 
and  agony  had  gone  by  without  a  reply.  Then  he 
had  tried  to  reach  her  by  long  distance  telephone, 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

but  without  success.  Finally  he  had  wired,  al- 
though he  knew  that  a  telegram  is  a  risky  vehicle 
for  confidential  business.  Now  he  had  her 
answer,  the  answer  that  he  wanted.  His  spirit 
was  released  and  leapt  forward,  leaving  resent- 
ments and  doubts  far  behind. 

It  was  eighty  miles  to  the  state  capital,  the 
road  was  good  all  the  way,  the  day  bright  and 
cool.  His  route  lead  across  the  mesa,  through 
the  Scissors  Pass,  and  then  north  and  east  along 
the  foot  of  the  mountains. 

Immense  and  empty  the  country  stretched  be- 
fore him — a  land  of  far-flung  levels  and  even 
farther  mountains;  a  land  which  makes  even  the 
sea,  with  its  near  horizons,  seem  little;  a  land 
which  has  always  produced  men  of  daring  because 
it  inspires  a  sense  of  freedom  without  any  limit 
save  what  daring  sets. 

He  had  dared  and  won.  He  was  going  to 
take  the  sweet  price  of  his  daring.  The  engine 
of  his  big  car  sang  to  him  a  song  of  victory  and 
desire.  He  rejoiced  in  the  sense  of  power  under 
his  hand.  He  opened  the  throttle  wider  and  the 
car  answered  with  more  speed,  licking  up  the 
road  like  a  hungry  monster.  How  easily  he 
mastered  time  and  distance  for  his  purpose! 

He  was  to  have  her,  she  would  be  his.  So 
sang  the  humming  motor  and  the  wind  in  his  ears. 
Her  white  arms  and  her  red  mouth,  her  splendid 
[190] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

eyes  that  feared  and  yielded!  She  was  waiting 
for  him !  More  speed.  He  conquered  the  hills 
with  a  roar  of  strength  to  spare,  topped  the 
crests,  and  sped  down  the  long  slopes  like  a  bird 
coming  to  earth. 

He  was  to  have  her,  she  would  be  his.  Could 
it  be  true?  The  great  machine  that  carried  him 
to  their  tryst  roared  an  affirmative,  the  wind  sang 
of  it,  his  blood  quickened  with  anticipation  in- 
credibly keen.  And  always  the  distance  that  lay 
between  them  was  falling  behind  in  long,  grey 
passive  miles. 

He  had  reached  his  destination  a  little  after 
six.  As  he  drove  slowly  through  the  streets  of 
the  little  dusty  town,  the  mood  of  exaltation  that 
had  possessed  him  during  the  trip  died  down. 
He  was  intent,  worried  practical.  Having  reg- 
istered at  the  hotel,  he  got  a  handful  of  time 
tables  and  made  his  plans  with  care.  They 
would  drive  to  a  town  twenty-five  miles  away,  be 
married,  and  catch  the  Califo'rnia  Limited. 
There  would  just  be  time.  Once  he  had  her  in 
his  car,  nothing  could  stop  them. 

The  plaza  or  public  square  about  which  the  old 
town  was  built,  and  which  had  been  its  market 
place  in  the  old  days,  was  now  occupied  by  a  neat 
little  park  with  a  band  stand.  Retail  stores  and 
banks  fronted  on  three  sides  of  it,  but  the  fourth 
was  occupied  by  a  long  low  adobe  building 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

which  was  very  old  and  had  been  converted  into  a 
museum  of  local  antiquities.  It  was  dark  and 
lifeless  at  night,  and  in  its  shadow-filled  verandah 
he  was  to  meet  her. 

He  had  his  car  parked  beside  the  spot  ten  min- 
utes ahead  of  time.  It  was  slightly  cold  now, 
with  a  gusty  wind  whispering  about  the  streets 
and  tearing  big  papery  leaves  from  the  cotton- 
wood  trees  in  the  park.  The  plaza  was  empty 
save  for  an  occasional  passer-by  whose  quick  foot- 
falls rang  sharply  in  the  silence.  Here  and  there 
was  an  illuminated  shop  window.  The  drug 
store  on  the  opposite  corner  showed  a  bright  in- 
terior, where  two  small  boys  devoured  ice  cream 
sodas  with  solemn  rapture.  Somewhere  up  a 
side  street  a  choir  was  practising  a  hymn,  making 
a  noise  infinitely  doleful. 

He  had  a  bear-skin  to  wrap  her  in,  and  he 
arranged  this  on  the  seat  beside  him  and  then 
tried  to  wait  patiently.  He  sat  very  tense  and 
motionless,  except  for  an  occasional  glance  at  his 
watch,  until  it  showed  exactly  seven-thirty. 
Then  he  got  out  of  his  car  and  began  walking 
first  to  one  side  of  the  corner  and  then  to  the 
other,  for  he  did  not  know  from  which  direction 
she  would  come.  At  twenty-five  minutes  of  eight 
he  was  angry,  but  in  another  ten  minutes  anger 
had  given  way  to  a  dull  heavy  disappointment 
that  seemed  to  hold  him  by  the  throat  and  make 
[192] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

it  difficult  to  swallow.  None-the-less  he  waited  a 
full  hour  before  he  started  up  his  car  and  drove 
slowly  back  to  the  hotel. 

On  the  way  he  debated  with  himself  whether 
he  should  try  to  communicate  with  her  tonight  or 
wait  until  the  next  day.  He  knew  that  the  wisest 
thing  would  be  to  wait  until  the  next  day  and  send 
her  a  note,  but  he  also  knew  that  he  could  not 
wait.  He  would  find  out  where  she  lived,  call 
her  on  the  telephone,  and  learn  what  had 
prevented  her  from  keeping  the  appointment. 
He  had  desperate  need  to  know  that  something 
besides  her  own  will  had  kept  her  away. 

When  he  went  to  the  hotel  desk,  a  clerk  handed 
him  a  letter. 

"This  was  here  when  you  registered,  I  think," 
he  said.  "But  I  didn't  know  it.  I'm  sorry." 

When  he  saw  the  handwriting  of  the  address 
he  was  filled  with  commotion.  Here,  then,  was 
her  explanation.  This  would  tell  him  why  she 
had  failed  him.  This,  in  all  probability,  would 
make  all  right. 

He  went  to  his  room  to  read  it,  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  ripped  the  envelope  open 
with  an  impatient  finger.  The  letter  was  dated 
two  days  earlier — the  day  after  she  had  received 
his  telegram. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  wrote,  "but  it 
doesn't  matter  much.  You  will  despise  me  any- 

[193] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

way,  and  I  despise  myself.  But  I  can't  help  it 
— honestly  I  can't.  I  meant  to  keep  my 
promise  and  I  would  have  kept  it,  but  they  found 
your  telegram  and  mother  read  it — by  mis- 
take, of  course.  I  ought  to  have  had  sense 
enough  to  burn  it.  You  can't  imagine  how  awful 
it  has  been.  Mother  said  the  most  terrible 
things  about  you,  things  she  had  heard.  And  she 
said  that  I  would  be  ruining  my  life  and  hers. 
I  said  I  didn't  care,  because  I  loved  you.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  an  awful  quarrel  we  had!  And  I 
wouldn't  have  given  in,  but  she  told  Gordon  and 
he  was  so  terribly  angry.  He  said  it  was  a  dis- 
grace to  the  family,  and  he  began  to  cough  and 
had  a  hemorrhage  and  we  thought  he  was  going 
to  die.  Mother  said  he  probably  would  die  un- 
less I  gave  you  up. 

"That  finished  me.  I  couldn't  do  anything 
after  that — I  just  couldn't.  There  was  nothing 
but  misery  in  sight  either  way,  so  what  was 
the  use?  I've  lost  all  my  courage  and  all  my 
doubts  have  come  back.  I  do  love  you — terribly. 
But  you  are  so  strange,  so  different.  And 
I  don't  think  we  would  have  gotten  along  or 
anything.  I  try  to  comfort  myself  by  thinking 
it's  all  for  the  best,  but  it  doesn't  really  comfort 
me  at  all.  I  never  knew  people  could  be  as 
miserable  as  I  am  now.  I  don't  think  its  fair. 

"When  you  get  this  I  will  be  on  my  way  to 

[194] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

New  York  and  nearly  there.  We  are  going  to 
sail  for  Europe  immediately.  I  will  never  see 
you  again.  I  will  always  love  you. 

"Julia." 

Rage  possessed  him  at  first — the  rage  of 
defeated  desire,  of  injured  pride,  of  a  passionate, 
undisciplined  nature  crossed  and  beaten.  He 
flung  the  letter  on  the  floor,  and  strode  up  and 
down  the  room,  looking  about  for  something  to 
smash  or  tear.  jSo  she  was  that  kind  of  a 
creature- — a  miserable,  whimpering  fool  that 
would  let  an  old  woman  and  a  sick  man  rule  her ! 
She  was  afraid  her  brother  might  die.  What  an 
excuse !  And  he  had  killed,  or  at  least  sanctioned 
killing,  for  her  sake.  He  had  poured  out  his 
blood  for  her.  There  was  nothing  he  would  not 
have  dared  or  done  to  have  her.  And  here  she 
had  the  soul  of  a  sheep  I 

But  no — perhaps  that  was  not  it.  Perhaps 
she  had  been  playing  with  him  all  along,  had 
never  had  any  idea  of  marrying  him —  because  he 
was  a  Mexican ! 

Bitter  was  this  thought,  but  it  died  as  his  anger 
died.  Something  that  sat  steady  and  clear  inside 
of  him  told  him  that  he  was  a  fool.  He  was 
reading  the  letter  again,  and  he  knew  it  was  all 
truth.  "There  was  nothing  but  misery  in  sight 
either  way,"  she  had  written. 

[195]    • 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Suddenly  he  understood;  suffering  and  an 
awakened  imagination  had  given  him  insight. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  realized  the  feel- 
ings of  another.  He  realized  how  much  he  had 
asked  of  this  girl,  who  had  all  her  life  been  ruled, 
who  had  never  tasted  freedom  nor  practised  self- 
reliance.  He  saw  now  that  she  had  rebelled  and 
had  fought  against  the  forces  and  fears  that  op- 
press youth,  as  had  he,  and  that  she  had  been  be- 
wildered and  overcome. 

His  anger  was  gone.  All  hot  emotion  was 
gone.  In  its  place  was  a  great  loneliness,  tinged 
with  pity.  He  looked  at  the  letter  again.  Its 
handwriting  showed  signs  of  disturbance  in  the 
writer,  but  she  had  not  forgotten  to  scent  it  with 
that  faint  delightful  perfume  which  was  forever 
associated  in  his  mind  with  her.  It  summoned 
the  image  of  her  with  a  vividness  he  could  not 
bear. 

But  courage  and  pride  are  not  killed  at  a  blow. 
He  threw  the  letter  aside  and  shook  himself 
sharply,  like  a  man  just  awake  trying  to  shake  off 
the  memory  of  a  nightmare.  She  was  gone,  she 
was  lost.  Well,  what  of  it?  There  were  many 
other  women  in  the  world,  many  beautiful  women. 
And  he  was  strong  now,  successful.  One  woman 
could  not  hurt  him  by  her  refusal.  He  tried  res- 
olutely to  put  her  out  of  his  mind,  and  to  think 
of  his  business,  of  his  plans.  But  these  things 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

which  had  glowed  so  brightly  in  his  imagination 
just  a  few  hours  before  were  suddenly  as  dead  as 
cinders.  He  knew  that  he  cared  little  for  dollars 
and  lands  in  themselves.  His  nature  demanded 
a  romantic  object,  and  this  love  had  given  it  to 
him.  Love  had  found  him  a  wretch  and  a  weak- 
ling, and  had  made  him  suddenly  strong  and 
ruthless,  bringing  out  all  the  colours  of  his  being, 
dark  and  bright,  making  life  suddenly  intense  and 
purposeful. 

And  she  had  meant  so  much  to  him  besides 
love.  To  have  won  her  would  have  been  to  win 
a  great  victory  over  the  gringos — over  that 
civilization,  alien  to  him  in  race  and  temper, 
v/hich  antagonized  and  yet  fascinated  him,  with 
which  he  was  forced  to  grapple  for  his  life. 

She  was  gone,  he  had  lost  her.  Perhaps  it  was 
just  as  well,  after  all,  he  told  himself,  speaking 
out  of  his  pride  and  his  courage.  But  in  his 
heart  was  a  great  bitterness.  In  his  heart  he 
felt  that  the  gringos  had  beaten  one  more  Del- 
casar. 


[197] 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

The  next  few  days  Ramon  spent  quietly  and 
systematically  drinking  whisky.  This  he  did 
partly  because  he  had  a  notion  that  it  was  an  ap- 
propriate thing  to  do  under  the  circumstances, 
and  partly  because  he  had  a  genuine  need  for 
something  to  jolt  his  mind  out  of  its  rut  of  misery. 
He  was  not  sociable  in  his  cups,  and  did  not  seek 
company  of  either  sex,  inviting  a  man  to  drink 
with  him  or  accepting  such  an  invitation  only 
when  he  had  to  do  so.  His  favourite  resort  was 
the  Silver  Dollar  Saloon,  which  was  furnished 
with  tables  set  between  low  partitions,  so  that 
when  he  had  one  of  these  booths  to  himself  he 
enjoyed  a  considerable  degree  of  isolation.  He 
drank  carefully,  like  a  Spaniard,  never  losing 
control  of  his  feet  or  of  his  eyes,  taking  always 
just  enough  to  keep  his  mind  away  from  real- 
ities and  filled  with  dreams.  In  these  dreams 
Julia  played  a  vivid  and  delightful  part.  He 
imagined  himself  encountering  her  under  all  sorts 
of  circumstances,  and  always  she  was  yielding, 
repentant,  she  was  his.  In  a  dozen  different 
ways  he  conquered  her,  taking  in  imagination,  as 
men  have  always  done,  what  the  reality  had  de- 

[198] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

nied.  Some  of  his  fancies  were  delightful  and 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  triumph,  so  that  men 
glanced  curiously  at  the  bright-eyed  boy  who  sat 
there  in  his  corner  all  alone,  absorbed  and  intent. 
But  there  were  other  times  at  night  when  his  de- 
feated desire  came  and  lay  in  his  arms  like  an 
invisible  unyielding  succuba,  torturing,  maddening, 
driving  him  back  to  the  street  to  drink  until 
drunken  sleep  came  with  its  sudden  brutal  mercy. 

But  after  a  few  days  alcohol  began  to  have  little 
effect  upon  him,  except  that  when  he  awoke  his 
hands  were  all  aflutter  so  that  he  spilled  his  coffee 
and  tore  his  newspaper.  He  felt  sick  and  weary, 
his  misery  numbed  by  many  repetitions  of  its  every 
twinge.  A  sure  instinct  urged  him  to  get  out  of 
the  town  and  into  the  mountains,  but  he  hated  to 
go  alone  and  lacked  the  initiative  to  start.  He 
had  a  friend  in  the  capital  named  Curtis,  who  was 
half  Mexican  and  half  Irish.  This  young  man 
was  a  dealer  in  mules  and  horses,  and  he  had  a 
herd  of  some  twenty  head  to  take  across  the  moun- 
tains about  sixty  miles.  Badly  in  need  of  a  helper 
and  unable  to  hire  one,  he  asked  Ramon  to  go 
with  him.  The  proposition  was  accepted  with  re- 
lief but  without  enthusiasm. 

Trouble  started  immediately.  The  horses  were 
only  half  broken,  and  the  one  they  chose  for  a  pack 
animal  rebelled  ten  miles  from  town  and  bucked 
the  pack  off,  scattering  tin  dishes,  sides  of  bacon, 

[199] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

loaves  of  bread  and  cans  of  condensed  milk  all 
over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  rough  country.  They 
rounded  up  the  recalcitrant  in  a  pouring  rain,  and 
made  a  wet  and  miserable  camp,  sleeping  the  sleep 
of  exhaustion  in  sodden  blankets.  The  next 
morning  the  pack  horse  opened  the  exercises  by 
rolling  down  a  steep  bank  into  the  creek,  plaster- 
ing himself  on  the  way  from  head  to  tail  with  a 
half  gallon  of  high  grade  sorghum  syrup  which 
had  been  on  top  of  the  load.  At  this  Ramon's 
tortured  nerves  exploded  and  he  jumped  into  the 
water  after  the  floundering  animal,  belabouring  it 
with  a  quirt,  and  cursing  it  richly  in  two  languages. 

He  then  put  a  slip  noose  around  its  upper  lip 
and  led  it  unmercifully,  while  Curtis  encouraged 
it  from  behind  with  a  rope-end.  Like  all  Mexi- 
cans, they  had  little  sympathy  for  horseflesh. 

These  labours  and  hardships  were  Ramon's 
salvation.  The  exercise  and  air  restored  his 
health  and  in  fighting  the  difficulties  of  unlucky 
travel  he  relieved  in  some  degree  the  rage  against 
life  that  embittered  him. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  room  in  the  hotel  he 
felt  measurably  at  peace,  though  weary  in  mind 
and  body.  He  came  across  Julia's  letter,  and  the 
sight  and  scent  of  it  struck  him  a  sharp  painful 
blow,  but  he  did  not  pause  now  to  savour  his  pain; 
he  tore  the  letter  into  small  pieces  and  threw  it 
[200] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

away.  Then  he  got  out  his  car  and  started  for 
home. 

He  went  back  beaten  over  the  same  road  that  he 
had  followed  in  the  moment  of  his  highest  hope, 
when  life  had  seemed  about  to  keep  all  the 
wonderful  promises  it  whispers  in  the  ear  of  youth. 
But  strangely  this  trip  was  not  the  sad  and  senti- 
mental affair  it  should  have  been.  His  rugged 
health  had  largely  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
disappointment  and  dissipation,  an  excellent  break- 
fast was  digesting  within  him,  the  sky  was  bright 
as  polished  turquoise  and  the  ozonous  west  wind, 
which  is  the  very  breath  of  hope,  played  sweetly  in 
his  face.  He  began  to  discover  various  consoling 
conditions  in  his  lot,  which  had  seemed  so  intoler- 
able just  a  few  days  before. 

Probably  no  man  under  forty  ever  lost  a  woman 
without  feeling  in  some  degree  compensated  by  a 
sense  of  freedom  regained,  and  in  the  man  of 
solitary  and  self-reliant  nature,  to  whom  freedom 
is  a  boon  if  not  a  necessity,  this  feeling  is  not  slow 
to  assert  itself.  Moreover,  Ramon  was  now 
caught  in  the  inevitable  reaction  from  a  purpose 
which  had  gathered  and  concentrated  his  energies 
with  passionate  intensity  for  almost  four  months. 
During  that  time  he  had  lived  with  taut  nerves  for 
a  single  hope;  he  had  turned  away  from  a  dozen 
alluring  by-paths;  he  had  known  that  absorbed 
[201] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

singleness  of  purpose  which  belongs  only  to  lovers, 
artists  and  other  monomaniacs. 

The  bright  hope  that  had  led  him  had  suddenly 
exploded,  leaving  him  stunned  and  ^flat  for  a 
time.  Now  he  got  to  his  feet  and  looked  about. 
He  realized  that  the  world  still  lay  before  him,  a 
place  of  wonderful  promise  and  possibility,  and 
apparently  he  could  stray  in  any  direction  he  chose. 
He  had  money  and  freedom  and  an  excellent 
equipment  of  appetites  and  curiosities.  Things 
he  had  dreamed  of  doing  long  ago,  in  case  he 
should  ever  come  into  his  wealth,  now  revisited 
his  imagination.  He  had  promised  himself  for 
one  thing  some  hunting  trips — long  ones  into  the 
mountains  and  down  the  river  in  his  car.  Gam- 
bling 'had  alw'ays  fascinated  him,  and  he  had 
longed  to  sit  in  a  game  high  enough  to  be  really 
interesting,  instead  of  the  quarter-limit  affair  that 
he  had  always  played  before.  And  there  were 
women  .  .  .  other  women.  And  he  meant  to  go 
to  New  York  or  Chicago  sometime  and  sample 
the  fleshpots  of  a  really  great  city  ....  Life 
after  all  was  still  an  interesting  thing. 

Not  that  he  forgot  his  serious  purposes.  He 
meant  to  open  a  law  office,  to  cultivate  his  political 
connections,  to  pursue  his  conquest  of  Arriba 
County.  But  although  he  did  not  realize  it,  his 
plans  for  making  himself  a  strong  and  secure  posi- 
tion in  life  had  lost  their  vitalizing  purpose.  All 
[202] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

of  these  things  he  would  do,  but  there  was  no  hur- 
ry about  them.  His  desire  now  was  to  taste  the 
sweetness  of  life,  and  to  rest.  He  was  without  a 
strong  acquisitive  impulse,  and  now  that  his  great 
purpose  in  making  money  was  gone,  these  projects 
did  not  strongly  engage  his  imagination.  He  had 
plenty  of  money.  He  refused  to  worry.  He 
felt  reckless,  too.  If  he  had  lost  his  great  hope, 
his  reward  was  to  be  released  from  the  discipline 
it  had  imposed. 

Nor  was  there  any  other  discipline  to  take  its 
place.  If  there  had  been  a  strong  creative  impulse 
in  him,  or  if  he  had  faced  a  real  struggle  for  his 
life  or  his  personal  freedom,  he  might  now  have 
recovered  that  condition  of  trained  and  focussed 
energy  which  civilized  life  demands  of  men.  But 
he  was  too  primitive  to  be  engaged  by  any  purely 
intellectual  purpose,  and  his  money  was  a  buffer 
between  him  and  struggle  imposed  from  without. 

As  he  thought  of  all  the  things  he  would  do,  he 
felt  strong  and  sure  of  himself.  He  thought  that 
he  was  now  a  shrewd,  cynical  man,  who  could  not 
be  deceived  or  imposed  upon,  who  could  take  the 
good  things  of  life  and  discount  the  disillusion- 
ments. 


[203] 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

One  of  his  first  acts  in  town  was  to  negotiate  a 
note  at  the  bank  for  several  thousand  dollars. 
This  was  necessary  because  he  had  little  cash  and 
would  not  have  much  until  spring,  when  he  would 
sell  lambs  and  shear  his  sheep.  He  not  only 
needed  money  for  himself,  but  his  mother  and 
sister,  after  many  lean  years,  were  eager  to  spend. 

He  drove  out  to  see  Catalina,  and  found  her 
big  with  child  and  utterly  indifferent  to  him,  which 
piqued  him  slightly  and  relieved  him  a  great  deal. 
She  had  heard  nothing  about  her  father,  and 
Ramon  sent  Cortez  out  to  Domingo  Canyon  to  see 
what  had  become  of  the  old  man.  Cortez 
reported  the  place  deserted.  Ramon  made 
inquiry  in  town  and  learned  that  Archulera  had 
been  seen  there  in  his  absence,  very  much  dressed- 
up  and  very  drunk,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  young 
Mexicans  who  were  evidently  parasites  on  his 
newly-acquired  wealth.  Then  he  had  dis- 
appeared, and  some  thought  he  had  gone  to 
Denver.  It  was  evident  that  his  five  thousand 
dollars  had  proved  altogether  too  much  for  him. 

Ramon  now  hung  out  a  shingle,  announcing 
himself  as  an  attorney-at-law.  Of  course,  no 
[204] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

business  came  to  him.  The  right  way  to  get  a 
practice  would  have  been  to  go  back  to  the  office 
of  Green  or  some  other  established  lawyer  for 
several  years.  But  Ramon  had  no  idea  of  doing 
anything  so  tiresome  and  so  relatively  humil- 
iating. The  idea  of  running  errands  for  Green 
again  was  repugnant  to  him. 

He  went  every  morning  to  his  office  and  for  a 
while  he  took  a  certain  amount  of  satisfaction  in 
merely  sitting  there,  reading  the  local  papers, 
smoking  a  cigar,  now  and  then  taking  down  one 
of  his  text  books  and  reading  a  little.  But  study 
as  such  had  absolutely  no  appeal  to  him.  He 
might  have  dug  at  the  dry  case  books  to  good 
purpose  if  he  had  been  driven  by  need,  but  as  it 
was  he  would  begin  to  yawn  in  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes,  and  then  would  put  the  book  away.  He 
went  home  to  a  noonday  dinner  rather  early  and 
came  back  in  the  afternoon,  feeling  sleepy  and 
bored.  Now  the  office,  and  indeed  the  whole 
town,  seemed  a  dreary  place  to  him.  At  this 
season  of  the  year  there  were  often  high  winds 
which  mantled  the  town  in  a  yellow  cloud  of  sand, 
and  rattled  at  every  loose  shutter  and  door  with 
futile  dreary  persistence.  Ramon  would  wander 
about  the  office  for  a  little  while  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  stare  out  the  window,  feeling 
depressed,  thoughts  of  his  disappointment  coming 
back  to  him  bitterly.  Then  he  would  take  his 
[205] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

hat  and  go  out  and  look  for  some  one  to  play 
pool  with  him.  Often  he  took  an  afternoon  off 
and  went  hunting,  not  alone  as  formerly  he  had 
done,  but  with  as  large  a  party  as  he  could  gather. 
They  would  drive  out  into  the  sand  hills  and 
mesas  twenty  or  thirty  miles  from  town,  where 
the  native  quail  and  rabbits  were  still  abundant 
as  automobiles  had  just  begun  to  invade  their 
haunts.  When  they  found  a  covey  of  quail  the 
sport  would  be  fast  and  furious,  with  half  a 
dozen  guns  going  at  once  and  birds  rising  and 
falling  in  all  directions.  Ramon  keenly  enjoyed 
the  hot  excitement  and  dramatic  quality  of  this. 
At  night  he  was  usually  to  be  found  at  the 
White  Camel  Pool  Hall  where  the  local  sporting 
element  foregathered  and  made  its  plans  for  the 
evening.  Sometimes  a  party  would  be  formed  to 
ugo  down  the  line,"  as  a  visit  to  the  red  light 
district  was  called.  Sometimes  the  rowdy  dance 
halls  of  Old  Town  were  invaded.  On  Saturday 
nights  the  dance  at  the  country  club  always  drew 
a  considerable  attendance.  There  was  also  a 
"dancing  class"  conducted  by  an  estimable  and 
needy  spinster  named  Grimes,  who  held  assembly 
dances  once  in  two  weeks  in  a  little  hall  which 
had  been  built  by  the  Woman's  Club.  This 
event  always  drew  a  large  and  very  mixed  crowd, 
including  some  of  the  "best  people"  and  others 
who  were  considered  not  so  good.  Usually  two 

[206] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

or  three  different  sets  were  represented  at 
these  gatherings,  each  tending  to  keep  to  itself. 
But  there  was  also  a  tendency  for  the  sets  to  over- 
lap. Thus  a  couple  of  very  pretty  German  girls, 
who  were  the  daughters  of  a  local  saloon  keeper, 
always  appeared  accompanied  by  young  men  of 
their  own  circle  with  whom  they  danced  almost 
exclusively  at  first.  But  young  men  of  the  first 
families  could  not  resist  their  charms,  and  they 
soon  were  among  the  most  popular  girls  on  the 
floor.  This  was  deplored  by  the  young  women 
of  more  secure  social  position,  who  were  wont  to 
remark  that  the  crowd  was  deteriorating  fright- 
fully. Some  of  these  same  superior  virgins 
found  it  necessary  for  politeness  to  dance  with 
Joe  Bartello,  the  son  of  an  Italian  saloon  owner, 
and  a  very  handsome  and  nimble-footed  youth. 
In  a  word,  this  was  a  place  of  social  hazard  and 
adventure,  and  that  was  more  than  half  its  charm. 
It  finally  became  so  crowded  that  dancing  was 
almost  impossible. 

The  back  room  at  the  White  Camel,  where 
poker  games  were  nightly  in  progress,  also 
afforded  Ramon  frequent  diversion.  He  played 
in  the  "big"  game  now,  where  the  stakes  and  limits 
were  high,  and  was  one  of  the  most  daring  and 
dangerous  of  its  patrons.  He  had  more  money 
back  of  him  than  most  of  the  men  who  played 
there,  and  he  also  had  more  courage.  If  he 

[207] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

started  a  bluff  he  carried  it  through  to  the  end, 
which  was  always  bitter  for  some  one.  He  had 
been  known  to  stand  pat  on  a  pair  and  scare 
every  one  else  out  of  the  game  by  the  resolute 
confidence  of  his  betting.  His  plunges,  of  course, 
sometimes  cost  him  heavily,  but  for  a  long  time 
he  was  a  moderate  winner.  His  limitations  as  a 
poker  player  were  finally  demonstrated  to  him 
by  one  Fitzhugh  Chesterman,  a  man  with  one 
lung. 

Chesterman  was  about  twenty-six  years  old  and 
had  come  from  Richmond,  Virginia,  about  two 
years  before,  with  most  of  one  lung  gone  and  the 
other  rapidly  going.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  blond 
youth  with  the  sensitive,  handsome  face  which 
so  often  marks  the  rare  survivor  of  the  old  south- 
ern aristocracy.  He  was  totally  lacking  in  the 
traditional  southern  sentimentality.  His  eye  had 
a  cold  twinkle  of  courage  that  even  the  imminent 
prospect  of  death  could  not  quench,  and  his  thin 
shapely  lips  nearly  always  wore  a  smile  slightly 
twisted  by  irony.  He  established  himself  at  the 
state  university,  which  had  almost  a  hundred 
students  and  boasted  a  dormitory  where  living  was 
very  cheap.  Chesterman  sat  before  this  dor- 
mitory twelve  to  fourteen  hours  a  day,  even  in 
relatively  cold  weather.  He  made  a  living  by 
coaching  students  in  mathematics  and  Greek. 
He  never  raised  his  voice,  he  seldom  laughed,  he 

[208]  . 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

never  lost  his  temper.  With  his  unwavering 
ironical  smile,  as  though  he  appreciated  the  keen 
humour  of  taking  so  much  trouble  over  such  an  in- 
significant thing  as  a  human  life,  he  husbanded 
his  energy  and  fought  for  health.  He  took  all 
the  treatments  the  local  sanatoria  afforded,  but 
he  avoided  carefully  all  the  colonies  and  other 
gatherings  of  the  tubercular.  When  his  lung 
began  to  heal,  as  it  did  after  about  a  year,  and 
his  strength  to  increase,  he  enlarged  his  earnings 
by  playing  poker.  He  won  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  took  no  more  chances  than  he  had  to. 
He  systematically  capitalized  every  bit  of  reck- 
lessness, stupidity  and  desperation  in  his  oppo- 
nents. 

When  Ramon  first  encountered  him,  the  game 
soon  simmered  down  to  a  struggle  between  the 
two.  Never  were  the  qualities  of  two  races  more 
strikingly  contrasted.  Ramon  bluffed  and 
plunged.  Chesterman  was  caution  itself,  playing 
out  antes  in  niggardly  fashion  until  he  had  a  hand 
which  put  the  law  of  probabilities  strongly  on  his 
side.  Ramon  was  full  of  daring,  intuition,  imag- 
ination, bidding  always  for  the  favour  of  the  fates, 
throwing  logic  to  the  winds.  He  was  not  above 
moving  his  seat  or  putting  on  his  hat  to  change  his 
luck.  Chesterman  smiled  at  these  things.  He 
was  cold  courage  battling  for  a  purpose  and  pray- 
ing to  no  deities  but  Cause  and  Effect.  Ramon 

[209] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

thought  he  was  playing  for  money,  but  he  was 
really  playing  for  the  sake  of  his  own  emotions, 
revelling  alike  in  hope  and  despair,  triumph  and 
victory,  flushed  and  bright-eyed.  Chesterman 
stifled  every  emotion,  discounted  every  hope,  said 
as  little  as  possible,  never  relaxed  his  faint  twisted 
smile. 

Ramon  made  some  spectacular  winnings,  but 
Chesterman  wore  him  down  as  surely  as  a  slow 
hound  wears  down  a  deer  despite  its  astounding 
bursts  of  speed.  Ramon  was  sure  to  lose  in  the 
long  run  because  he  was  always  piling  up  odds 
against  himself  by  the  long  chances  he  took,  while 
his  bluffs  seldom  deceived  his  cool  and  courageous 
opponent.  The  finish  came  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Chesterman  was  pale  with  exhaustion, 
but  otherwise  unchanged.  Ramon  was  hoarse 
and  flushed,  chewing  a  cigar  to  bits.  He  held  a 
full  house  and  determined  to  back  it  to  the  limit. 
Chesterman  met  him,  bet  for  bet,  raising  every 
time.  Ramon  knew  that  he  must  be  beaten.  He 
knew  that  Chesterman  would  not  raise  him  unless 
he  had  a  very  strong  hand.  But  he  was  beaten 
anyway.  At  the  bottom  of  his  consciousness,  he 
knew  that  he  had  met  a  better  man.  He  wanted 
to  end  the  contest  on  this  hand.  When  Chester- 
man showed  four  kings,  Ramon  fell  back  in  his 
chair,  weak  and  disgusted.  The  other  players, 
most  of  whom  had  long  been  out  of  the  game, 
[210] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

got  up  and  said  good  night  one  by  one.  Only 
the  two  were  left,  Ramon  plunged  in  gloomy 
reaction,  Chesterman  coolly  counting  his  money, 
putting  it  away. 

"I  seem  to  have  made  quite  a  killing,"  he  re- 
marked, "how  much  did  you  lose?" 

"O,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  about  five  hundred. 
Hell,  what's  five  hundred  to  me  ....  I  don't 
give  a  damn  .  .  .  I'm  rich.  .  .  ." 

Chesterman  glanced  at  him  keenly. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  "I'm  glad  you  feel  that 
way  about  it,  because  I  sure  need  the  money." 

He  got  up  and  walked  away  with  the  short 
careful  steps  of  a  man  who  cherishes  every  ounce 
of  his  energy. 

Ramon  was  disgusted  with  himself.  Chester- 
man had  made  him  feel  like  a  weakling  and  a 
child.  He  had  thought  himself  a  lion  in  this 
game,  and  he  had  found  out  that  he  was  an  easily- 
shorn  lamb.  He  could  not  afford  to  lose  five 
hundred  dollars  either.  He  was  not  really  a  rich 
man.  He  went  home  feeling  deeply  depressed 
and  discouraged.  Vaguely  he  realized  that  in 
Chesterman  he  had  encountered  the  spirit  which 
he  felt  against  him  .everywhere — a  cool,  calcu- 
lating, unmerciful  spirit  of  single  purpose,  against 
which  the  play  and  flow  of  his  emotional  and 
imaginative  nature  was  as  ineffectual  as  mercury 
against  the  point  of  a  knife. 

[211] 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Within  the  next  few  days  Ramon  was  sharply 
reminded  that  he  lived  in  a  little  town  where  news 
travels  fast  and  nobody's  business  is  exclusively 
his  own.  Cortez  came  into  his  office  and  accepted 
a  seat  and  a  cigar  with  that  respectful  but  worried 
manner  which  always  indicated  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  say. 

UI  hear  you  lost  five  hundred  dollars  the  other 
night,"  he  observed  gravely,  watching  his  young 
employer's  face. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  Ramon  enquired,  a  bit 
testily. 

"You  can't  afford  it,"  Cortez  replied.  "And 
not  only  the  money  .  .  .  you've  got  to  think  of 
your  reputation.  You  know  how  these  gringos 
are.  They  keep  things  quiet.  They  expect  a 
young  man  to  lead  a  quiet  life  and  tend  to  busi- 
ness. It's  all  right  to  have  a  little  fun  .  .  .  they 
all  do  it  ...  but  for  God's  sake  be  careful. 
You  hurt  your  chances  this  way  ...  in  the  law, 
in  politics." 

Ramon  jerked  his  head  impatiently  and  flushed 
a  little,  but  reflection  checked  his  irritation. 
Hatred  of  restraint,  love  of  personal  liberty,  the 
[212] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

animal  courage  that  scorns  to  calculate  conse- 
quences were  his  by  heritage.  But  he  knew  that 
Cortez  spoke  the  truth. 

"All  right  Antonio,"  he  said  with  dignity. 
"I'll  be  careful." 

The  next  day  he  got  a  letter  which  emphasized 
the  value  of  his  henchman's  warning  and  made 
Ramon  really  thoughtful.  It  was  from  Mac- 
Dougall, and  made  him  another  offer  for  his  land. 
It  had  a  preamble  to  the  effect  that  land  values 
were  falling,  money  was  "tight,"  and  therefore 
Ramon  would  do  well  to  sell  now,  before  a  fur- 
ther drop  in  prices.  It  made  him  an  offer  of  ten 
thousand  dollars  less  than  MacDougall  had  of- 
fered before. 

Ramon  knew  that  the  talk  about  falling  values 
was  largely  bluff,  that  MacDougall  had  heard  of 
his  losses  and  of  his  loose  and  idle  life,  and 
thought  that  he  could  now  buy  the  lands  at  his 
own  price.  The  gringo  had  confidently  waited 
for  the  Mexican  to  make  a  fool  of  himself. 
Ramon  resolved  hotly  that  he  would  do  no  such 
thing.  He  had  no  idea  of  selling.  He  would  be 
more  careful  with  his  money,  and  next  summer  he 
would  go  back  to  Arriba  County,  renew  his  cam- 
paign against  MacDougall  and  buy  some  land  with 
the  money  he  could  get  for  timber  and  wool. 
He  replied  very  curtly  to  MacDougall  that  his 
lands  were  not  for  sale. 

[213] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

After  that  he  stayed  away  from  poker  games 
for  a  while.  This  was  made  easier  by  a  new 
interest  which  had  entered  his  life  in  the  person  of 
a  waitress  at  the  Eldorado  Lunch  room.  The 
girls  at  this  lunch  room  had  long  borne  a  bad 
reputation.  Even  in  the  days  before  the  big  hotel 
had  been  built,  when  the  railroad  company  main- 
tained merely  a  little  red  frame  building  there, 
known  as  the  Eating  House,  these  waitresses  had 
been  a  mainstay  of  local  bachelordom.  Their 
successors  were  still  referred  to  by  their  natural 
enemies,  the  respectable  ladies  of  the  town,  as 
"those  awful  eating  house  girls" ;  while  the  advent 
of  a  new  "hash-slinger"  was  always  a  matter  of 
considerable  interest  among  the  unmarried  ex- 
quisites who  fore-gathered  at  the  White  Camel. 
In  this  way  Ramon  quickly  heard  of  the  new 
waitress.  She  was  reputed  to  be  both  prettier 
and  less  approachable  than  most  of  her  kind. 
Sidney  Felberg  had  made  a  preliminary  recon- 
naissance and  a  pessimistic  report. 

"Nothing  doing,"  he  said.  "She's  got  a  hus- 
band somewhere  and  a  notion  she's  cut  out  for 
better  things.  .  .  .  I'm  off  her!" 

This  immediately  provoked  Ramon's  interest. 
He  went  to  the  lunch  room  at  a  time  when  he 
knew  there  would  be  few  customers.  When  he 
saw  the  girl  he  felt  a  faint  thrill.  The  reason  for 
this  was  that  Dora  McArdle  somewhat  resembled 

[2I4] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Julia.  The  resemblance  was  slight  and  superficial, 
yet  instantly  noticeable.  She  was  a  little  larger, 
but  had  about  the  same  figure,  and  the  same 
colour  of  hair,  and  above  all  the  same  sensuous, 
provocative  mouth.  Ramon  followed  her  with 
his  eyes  until  she  became  conscious  of  his  scrutiny, 
when  she  tossed  her  head  with  that  elaborate  af- 
fectation of  queenly  scorn,  which  seems  to  be  the 
special  talent  of  waitresses  everywhere.  Never- 
theless, when  she  came  to  take  his  order  she  gave 
him  a  pleasant  smile.  He  saw  now  that  she  was 
not  really  like  Julia.  She  was  coarse  and  com- 
monplace, but  she  was  also  shapely,  ripe-breasted, 
good-natured,  full  of  the  appeal  of  a  healthy 
animalism. 

"What  time  do  you  get  done  here?"  Ramon 
enquired. 

"Don't  know  that  it's  any  of  your  business," 
she  replied  with  another  one  of  her  crushing  tosses 
of  the  head,  and  went  away  to  get  his  order. 
When  she  came  back  he  asked  again. 

"What  time  did  you  say?" 

"Well,  about  nine  o'clock,  if  it'll  give  you  any 
pleasure  to  know." 

"I'll  come  for  you  in  my  car,"  he  told  her. 

"Oh!  will  you?"  and  she  paid  no  more  atten- 
tion to  him  until  he  started  to  go,  when  she  gave 
him  a  broad  smile,  showing  a  couple  of  gold  teeth. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  was  waiting  for  her  at  the 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

door,  and  she  went  with  him.  He  took  her  for 
a  drive  on  the  mesa,  heading  for  the  only  road 
house  which  the  vicinity  boasted.  It  was  a  great 
stone  house,  which  had  been  built  long  ago  by  a 
rich  man,  and  had  later  fallen  into  the  hands  of  an 
Italian  named  Salvini,  who  installed  a  bar,  and 
had  both  private  dining  rooms  and  bed  rooms, 
these  latter  available  only  to  patrons  in  whom  he 
had  the  utmost  confidence.  This  resort  was  in- 
formally known  as  the  "chicken  ranch." 

When  Ramon  tried  to  take  his  fair  partner 
there,  on  the  plea  that  they  must  have  a  bite  to 
eat,  she  objected. 

"I  don't  believe  that  place  is  respectable,"  she 
told  him  very  primly.  "I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  ask  me  to  go  there." 

"O  Hell!"  said  Ramon  to  himself.  iBut  aloud 
he  proposed  that  they  should  drive  to  an  adjacent 
hill-top  from  which  the  lights  of  the  town  could 
be  seen.  When  he  had  parked  the  car  on  this 
vantage  point  and  lit  a  cigarette,  Dora  began  a 
narrative  of  a  kind  with  which  he  was  thoroughly 
familiar.  She  was  of  that  well-known  type  of 
woman  who  is  found  in  a  dubious  position,  but  ex- 
plains that  she  has  known  better  days.  Her 
father  had  been  a  judge  in  Kansas,  the  family  had! 
been  wealthy,  she  had  never  known  what  work 
was  until  she  got  married,  her  marriage  had  been  a 
tragedy,  her  husband  had  drank,  there  had  been  a 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

smash-up,  the  family  had  met  with  reverses.  On 
and  on  went  the  story,  its  very  tone  and  character 
and  the  grammar  she  used  testifying  eloquently  to 
the  fact  that  she  was  no  such  crushed  violet  as 
she  claimed  to  be.  Ramon  was  bored.  A  year 
ago  he  would  have  been  more  tolerant,  but  now  he 
had  experienced  feminine  charm  of  a  really  high 
order,  and  all  the  vulgarity  and  hypocrisy  of  this 
woman  was  apparent  to  him.  And  yet  as  he  sat 
beside  her  he  was  keenly,  almost  morbidly  con- 
scious of  the  physical  attraction  of  her  fine  young 
body.  For  all  her  commonness  and  coarseness, 
he  wanted  her  with  a  peculiarly  urgent  desire. 
Here  was  the  heat  of  love  without  the  flame  and 
light,  desire  with  no  more  exaltation  than  ac- 
companies a  good  appetite  for  dinner.  He  was 
puzzled  and  a  little  disgusted. .  ,  .  He  did  not 
understand  that  this  was  his  defeated  love,  seek- 
ing, as  such  a  love  almost  inevitably  does,  a  vicari- 
ous satisfaction. 

Repugnance  and  desire  struggled  strangely 
within  him.  He  was  half-minded  to  take  her 
home  and  leave  her  alone.  At  any  rate  he  was 
not  going  to  sit  there  and  listen  to  her  insane  bab- 
ble all  night.  To  put  his  fortunes  to  the  test,  he 
abruptly  took  her  in  his  arms.  She  made  a  futile 
pretence  of  resistance.  When  their  lips  touched, 
desire  flashed  up  in  him  strongly,  banishing  all  his 
hesitations.  He  talked  hot  foolishness  to  which 

[217] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

she  listened  greedily,  but  when  he  tried  to  take 
her  to  Salvini's  again,  she  insisted  on  going  home. 
Before  he  left  her  he  had  made  another  appoint- 
ment. 

Now  began  an  absurd  contest  between  the  two 
in  which  Ramon  was  always  manoeuvring  to  get 
her  alone  somewhere  so  that  he  might  complete 
his  conquest  if  possible,  while  her  sole  object  was 
to  have  him  gratify  her  vanity  by  appearing  in 
public  with  her.  This  he  knew  he  could  not 
afford  to  do.  He  could  not  even  drive  down  the 
street  with  her  in  daylight  without  all  gossips 
being  soon  aware  he  had  done  so.  No  one  knew 
much  about  her,  of  course,  but  she  was  uone  of 
those  eating  house  girls"  and  to  treat  her  as  a 
social  equal  was  to  court  social  ostracism.  He 
would  win  the  enmity  of  the  respectable  women 
of  the  town,  and  he  knew  very  well  that  respect- 
able women  rule  their  husbands.  His  prospects 
in  business  and  politics,  already  suffering,  would 
be  further  damaged. 

Here  again  was  a  struggle  within  him.  He 
was  of  a  breed  that  follows  instinct  without  fear, 
that  has  little  capacity  for  enduring  restraints. 
And  he  knew  well  that  the  other  young  lawyers, 
the  gringos,  were  no  more  moral  than  he.  But 
they  were  careful.  Night  was  their  friend  and 
they  were  banded  together  in  a  league  of  obscene 
secrecy.  He  despised  this  code  and  yet  he  feared 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

it.  For  the  gringos  held  the  whip;  he  must 
either  cringe  or  suffer. 

So  he  was  careful  and  made  compromises. 
Dora  wanted  him  to  take  her  to  dinner  in  the 
main  dining  room  of  the  hotel,  and  he  evaded  and 
compromised  by  taking  her  there  late  at  night 
when  not  many  people  were  present.  She  wanted 
him  to  take  her  to  a  movie  and  he  pleaded  that  he 
had  already  seen  the  bill,  and  asked  her  if  she 
wanted  to  bore  him.  And  when  she  pouted  he 
made  her  a  present  of  a  pair  of  silk  stockings. 
She  accepted  all  sorts  of  presents,  so  that  he  felt 
he  was  making  progress.  She  was  making  vague 
promises  now  of  "sometime"  and  "maybe,"  and 
his  desire  was  whipped  up  with  anticipation,  mak- 
ing him  always  more  reckless. 

One  night  late  he  took  her  to  the  Eldorado 
and  persuaded  her  to  drink  champagne,  thinking 
this  would  forward  his  purpose.  The  wine  made 
her  rosy  and  pretty,  and  it  also  made  her  forget 
her  poses  and  affectations.  She  was  more  charm- 
ing to  him  than  ever  before,  partly  because  of  the 
change  in  her,  and  partly  because  his  own  critical 
faculties  were  blunted  by  alcohol.  He  was  al- 
most in  love  with  her  and  he  felt  sure  that  he  was 
about  to  win  her.  But  presently  she  began 
wheedling  him  in  the  old  vein.  She  wanted  him 
to  take  her  to  the  dance  at  the  Woman's  Club ! 

This  would  be  to  slap  convention  in  the  face, 

[219] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

and  at  first  he  refused  to  consider  it.  But  he 
foolishly  went  on  drinking,  and  the  more  he  drank 
the  more  feasible  the  thing  appeared.  Dora  had 
quit  drinking  and  was  pleading  with  him. 

"I  dare  you!"  she  told  him.  "You're  afraid 
.  .  .You  don't  think  I'm  good  enough  for  you.  .  . 
And  yet  you  say  you  love  me  ...  I'm  just  as  good 
as  any  girl  in  this  town  .  .  .  Well  if  you  won't, 
I'm  going  home.  I'm  through!  I  thought  you 
really  cared." 

And  then,  when  he  had  persuaded  her  not  to 
run  away,  she  became  sad  and  just  a  little  tearful. 

"It's  terrible,"  she  confided.  "Just  because  I 
have  to  make  my  own  living.  .  .  Its  not  fair.  I 
ought  never  to  speak  to  you  again .  .  .  And  yet,  I 
do  care  for  you.  .  .  ." 

Ramon  was  touched.  The  pathos  of  her  situ- 
ation appealed  strongly  to  his  tipsy  consciousness. 
Why  not  do  it?  After  all,  the  girl  was  respect- 
able. As  she  said,  nobody  "had  (anything  on 
her."  The  dance  was  a  public  affair.  Any  one 
could  go.  He  had  been  too  timid.  Not  three 
people  there  knew  who  she  was.  By  God,  he 
would  do  it! 

At  first  they  did  not  attract  much  attention. 
Dora  was  pretty  and  fairly  well  dressed,  in  no  way 
conspicuous.  They  danced  exclusively  with  each 
other,  as  did  some  other  couples  present,  and 
nothing  was  thought  of  that. 
[220] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

But  soon  he  became  aware  of  glances,  hostile, 
disapproving.  Probably  it  was  true  that  only  a 
few  of  the  men  at  first  knew  who  Dora  was,  but 
they  told  other  men,  and  some  of  the  men  told  the 
women.  Soon  it  was  known  to  all  that  he  had 
brought  uone  of  those  awful  eating  house  girls" 
to  the  dance!  The  enormity  of  the  mistake  he 
had  made  was  borne  in  upon  him  gradually. 
Some  of  the  men  he  knew  smiled  at  him,  generally 
with  an  eye-brow  raised,  or  with  a  shake  of  the 
head.  Sidney  Felberg,  who  was  a  real  friend, 
took  him  aside. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Ramon,  what  did  you 
bring  that  Flusey  here  for?  You're  queering 
yourself  at  a  mile  a  minute.  And  you're  drunk, 
too.  For  Heaven's  sake,  cart  her  away  while 
the  going's  good!" 

Ramon  had  not  realized  how  drunk  he  was 
until  he  heard  this  warning. 

"O,  go  to  hell,  Sid!"  he  countered.  "She's  as 
good  as  anybody  ...  I  guess  I  can  bring  any- 
body I  want  here.  .  .  ." 

Sidney  shook  his  head. 

"No  use,  no  use,"  he  observed  philosophically. 
"But  it's  too  bad!" 

Ramon's  own  words  sounded  hollow  to  him. 

He  was  in  that  peculiar  condition  when  a  man 

knows  that  he  is  making  an  ass  of  himself,  and 

knows  that  he  is  going  right  ahead  doing  it.     He 

[221] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

was  more  attentive  to  Dora  than  ever.  He 
brought  her  a  glass  of  water,  talked  to  her  contin- 
ually with  his  back  to  the  hostile  room.  He  was 
fully  capable  of  carrying  the  thing  through,  even 
though  girls  he  had  known  all  his  life  were  refus- 
ing to  meet  his  eyes. 

It  was  Dora  who  weakened.  She  became 
quiet  and  sad,  and  looked  infinitely  forlorn. 
When  a  couple  of  women  got  up  and  moved 
pointedly  away  from  her  vicinity,  her  lip  began 
to  tremble,  and  her  wide  blue  eyes  were  brimming. 

"Come  on,  take  me  away  quick,"  she  said  path- 
etically. "I'm  going  to  cry." 

When  they  were  in  the  car  again  she  turned  in 
the  seat,  buried  her  face  in  her  arms  and  sobbed 
passionately  with  a  gulping  noise  and  spasmodic 
upheavals  of  her  shoulders.  Ramon  drove 
slowly.  He  was  sober  now,  painfully  sober! 
He  was  utterly  disgusted  with  himself,  and  bit- 
terly sorry  for  Dora.  A  strong  bond  of  sym- 
pathy had  suddenly  been  created  between  them, 
for  he  too  had  tasted  the  bitterness  of  prejudice. 
For  the  first  time  Dora  was  not  merely  a  frumpy 
woman  who  had  provoked  in  him  a  desire  he  half- 
despised;  she  was  a  fellow  human,  who  knew  the 
same  miseries.  .  .  .  He  had  intended  to  take  her 
this  night,  to  make  a  great  play  for  success,  but 
he  no  longer  felt  that  way.  He  drove  to  the 
boarding  house  where  she  lived. 
[222] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said  gently,  "I'll  call  you 
up  tomorrow." 

Dora  looked  up  for  the  first  time. 

"O,  no!"  she  plead.  "Don't  go  off  and  leave 
me  now.  Don't  leave  me  alone.  Take  me  some- 
where, anywhere.  .  .  .  Do  anything  you  want 
with  me.  .  .  .  You're  all  I've  got!" 


[223] 


- 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  rest  of  the  winter  Ramon  spent  in  an  aim- 
lessly pleasant  way.  He  tried  to  work  but  with- 
out arousing  in  himself  enough  enthusiasm  to  in- 
sure success.  He  played  pool,  gambled  a  little 
and  hunted  a  great  deal.  He  relished  his  pleas- 
ures with  the  keen  appetite  of  health  and  youth, 
but  when  they  were  over  he  felt  empty-minded 
and  restless  and  did  not  know  what  to  do  about  it. 

Some  business  came  to  his  law  office.  Because 
of  his  knowledge  of  Spanish  and  of  the  country 
he  was  several  times  employed  to  look  up  titles  to 
land,  and  this  line  of  work  he  might  have  devel- 
oped into  a  good  practice  had  he  possessed  the 
patience.  But  it  was  monotonous,  tedious  work, 
and  it  bored  him.  He  would  toil  over  the  papers 
with  a  good  will  for  a  while,  and  then  a  state  of 
apathy  would  come  over  him,  and  like  a  boy  in 
school  he  would  sit  vaguely  dreaming.  .  .  .  Such 
dull  tasks  took  no  hold  upon  his  mind. 

He  defended  several  Mexican  criminals,  and 
found  this  a  more  congenial  form  of  practice,  but 
an  unremunerative  one.  The  only  case  which 
advanced  him  toward  the  reputation  for  which 
every  young  attorney  strives  brought  him  no 

[224] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

money  at  all.  A  young  Mexican  farmer  of  good 
reputation  named  Juan  Valera  had  been  converted 
to  the  Methodist  faith.  Like  most  of  the  few 
Mexicans  who  are  won  over  to  Protestantism,  he 
had  brought  to  his  new  religion  a  fanatical  spirit, 
and  had  made  enemies  of  the  priests  and  of  many 
of  his  neighbours  by  proselyting.  Furthermore, 
his  young  and  pretty  wife  remained  a  Catholic, 
which  had  caused  a  good  deal  of  trouble  in  his 
house.  But  the  couple  were  really  devoted  and 
managed  to  compromise  their  differences  until  a 
child  was  born.  Then  arose  the  question  as  to 
whether  it  should  be  baptized  a  Catholic  or  a 
Methodist.  The  girl  wanted  her  baby  to  be 
baptized  in  the  Catholic  faith,  and  was  fully 
persuaded  by  the  priests  that  it  would  otherwise 
go  to  purgatory.  She  was  backed  by  her  father, 
whose  interference  was  resented  by  Juan  more 
than  anything  else.  He  consulted  the  pastor  of 
his  church,  a  bigoted  New  Englander,  who  coun- 
selled him  on  no  account  to  yield. 

One  evening  when  Juan  was  away  from  home, 
his  father-in-law  came  to.  his  house  and  persuaded 
the  girl  to  go  with  him  and  have  the  child  baptized 
in  the  Catholic  faith,  in  order  that  it  might  be 
saved  from  damnation.  After  the  ceremony  they 
went  to  a  picture-show  by  way  of  a  celebration. 
When  Juan  came  home  he  learned  from  the  neigh- 
bours what  had  happened.  His  face  became  very 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

•  pale,  his  lips  set,  and  his  eyes  had  a  hot,  dangerous 
look.  He  got  out  a  butcher  knife  from  the 
kitchen,  whetted  it  to  a  good  point,  and  went  and 
hid  behind  a  big  cottonwood  tree  near  the  moving- 
picture  theatre.  When  his  wife  with  the  child 
and  her  father  came  out,  he  stepped  up  behind 
the  old  man  and  drove  the  knife  into  the  back  of 
his  neck  to  the  hilt,  severing  the  spinal  column. 
Afterward  he  looked  at  the  dead  man  for  a  mo- 
ment and  at  his  wife,  sitting  on  the  ground  shriek- 
ing, then  went  home  and  washed  his  hands  and 
changed  his  shirt — for  blood  had  spurted  all  over 
him — walked  to  the  police  station  and  gave  him- 
self up. 

This  man  had  no  money,  and  it  is  customary 
in  such  cases  for  the  court  to  appoint  a  lawyer  to 
conduct  the  defence.  [Usually  a  young  lawyer  who 
needs  a  chance  to  show  his  abilities  is  chosen,  and 
the  honor  now  fell  upon  Ramon. 

This  was  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun  to 
study  law  that  he  had  been  really  interested.  He 
understood  just  how  Juan  Valera  had  felt.  He 
called  on  him  in  jail.  Juan  Valera  was  composed, 
almost  apathetic.  He  said  he  was  willing  to  die, 
that  he  did  not  fear  death. 

"Let  them  hang  me,"  he  said.  "I  would  do 
the  same  thing  again." 

Ramon  studied  the  law  of  his  case  with  exhaus- 
tive thoroughness,  but  the  law  did  not  hold  out 

[226] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

much  hope  for  his  client.  It  was  in  his  plea  to 
the  jury  that  he  made  his  best  effort.  Here  again 
he  discovered  the  eloquence  that  he  had  used  the 
summer  before  in  Arriba  County.  Here  he  lost 
for  a  moment  his  sense  of  aimlessness,  felt  again 
the  thrill  of  power  and  the  joy  of  struggle.  He 
described  vividly  the  poor  Mexican's  simple  faith, 
his  absolute  devotion  to  it,  showed  that  he  had 
killed  out  of  an  all-compelling  sense  of  right  and 
duty.  He  found  a  good  many  witnesses  to  tes- 
tify that  Juan's  father-in-law  had  hectored  the 
young  man  a  good  deal,  insulted  him,  intruded  in 
his  home.  Half  of  the  jurors  were  Mexicans. 
For  a  while  the  jury  was  hung.  But  it  finally 
brought  in  a  verdict  of  murder  in  the  first  degree, 
which  was  practically  inevitable.  Juan  accepted 
this  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  announced 
himself  ready  to  hang  and  meet  his  Methodist 
God.  But  Ramon  insisted  on  taking  an  appeal. 
He  finally  got  the  sentence  commuted  to  life 
imprisonment.  He  then  felt  disgusted,  and 
wished  that  he  had  let  the  man  hang,  feeling  that 
he  would  have  been  better  off  dead  than  in  the 
state  penitentiary.  But  Juan's  wife,  who  really 
loved  him,  came  to  Ramon's  office  and  embraced 
his  knees  and  laughed  and  cried  and  swore  that 
she  would  do  his  washing  for  nothing  as  long  as 
she  lived.  For  now  she  could  visit  her  husband 
once  a  month  and  take  him  tortillas!  Ramon 
[227] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

gave  her  ten  dollars  and  pushed  her  out  the  door. 
He  had  worked  hard  on  the  case.  He  felt  old 
and  weary  and  wanted  to  get  drunk. 

One  day  Ramon  received  an  invitation  to  go 
hunting  with  Joe  Cassi  and  his  friends.  He 
accepted  it,  and  afterward  went  on  many  trips 
with  the  Italian  saloon-owner,  thereby  doing 
further  injury  to  his  social  standing. 

Cassi  had  come  to  the  town  some  twenty  years 
before  with  a  hand  organ  and  a  monkey.  The 
town  was  not  accustomed  to  that  form  of  en- 
tertainment; some  of  the  Mexicans  threw  rocks 
at  Cassi  and  a  dog  killed  his  monkey.  Cassi  was 
at  that  time  a  slender  youth,  handsome,  ragged 
and  full  of  high  hopes.  When  his  monkey  was 
killed  he  first  wept  with  rage  and  then  swore  that 
he  would  stay  in  that  town  and  have  the  best  of  it. 
He  now  owned  three  saloons  and  the  largest 
business  building  in  town.  He  was  a  lean,  grave, 
silent  little  man. 

Cassi  had  made  most  of  his  money  in  the  days 
when  gambling  was  "open"  in  the  town,  and  he 
had  surrounded  himself  with  a  band  of  choice 
spirits  who  were  experts  in  keno,  roulette  and 
poker.  These  still  remained  on  his  hands,  some 
of  them  in  the  capacity  of  barkeepers,  and  others 
practically  as  pensioners.  They  were  all  great 
sportsmen,  heavy  drinkers  and  loyal-to-the-death 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

friends.  At  short  intervals  they  went  on  hunting 
trips  clown  the  river,  generally  remaining  over 
the  week-end.  It  was  of  these  expeditions  that 
Ramon  now  became  a  regular  member.  Some- 
times the  whole  party  would  get  drunk  and  come 
back  whooping  and  singing  as  the  automobiles 
bowled  along,  occasionally  firing  shotguns  into  the 
air.  At  other  times  when  luck  was  good  every- 
one became  interested  in  the  sport  and  forgot  to 
drink.  Ramon  had  a  real  respect  for  Cassi,  and 
a  certain  amount  of  contempt  for  most  of  the  rest 
of  them;  yet  he  felt  more  at  home  with  these 
easy-going,  pleasure-loving,  loyal  fellows  than  he 
did  with  those  thrifty,  respectable  citizens  in  whose 
esteem  the  dollar  stood  so  invariably  first. 

Cassi  and  his  friends  used  most  often  to  go  to 
a  Mexican  village  some  fifty  miles  down  the  river 
where  the  valley  was  low  and  flat,  and  speckled 
with  shallow  alkaline  ponds  made  by  seepage 
from  the  river.  Every  evening  the  wild  ducks 
flew  into  these  ponds  from  the  river  to  feed,  and 
the  shooting  at  this  evening  flight  Ramon  espe- 
cially loved.  The  party  would  scatter  out,  each 
man  choosing  his  own  place  on  the  East  side  of 
one  of  the  little  lakes,  so  that  the  red  glare  of  the 
sunset  was  opposite  him.  There  he  would  lie 
flat  on  the  ground,  perhaps  making  a  low  blind  of 
weeds  or  rushes. 

Seldom  even  in  January  was  it  cold  enough  to 

[229] <, 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

be  uncomfortable.  Ramon  would  lie  on  an 
elbow,  smoking  a  cigarette,  watching  the  light 
fade,  and  the  lagoon  before  him  turn  into  molten 
gold  to  match  the  sunset  sky.  It  would  be  very 
quiet  save  for  such  sounds  as  the  faraway  barking 
of  dogs  or  the  lowing  of  cattle.  When  the  sky 
overhead  had  faded  to  an  obscure  purple,  and  the 
flare  of  the  sunset  had  narrowed  to  a  belt  along 
the  horizon,  he  would  hear  the  distant  eerie 
whistle  of  wild  wings.  Nothing  could  be  seen 
yet,  but  the  sound  multiplied.  He  could  distin- 
guish now  the  roar  of  a  great  flock  of  mallards, 
circling  round  and  round  high  overhead,  scouting 
for  danger.  He  could  hear  the  sweet  flute-notes 
of  teal  and  pintails,  and  the  raucous,  cautious 
quack  of  some  old  green-head.  A  teal  would 
pitch  suddenly  down  to  the  water  before  him  and 
rest  there,  erect  and  wary,  painted  in  black  upon 
the  golden  water.  Another  would  join  it  and 
another.  The  cautious  mallards,  encouraged  by 
this,  would  swing  lower.  The  music  of  their 
wings  seemed  incredibly  close;  he  would  grip  his 
gun  hard,  holding  himself  rigidly  still,  feeling 
clearly  each  beat  of  his  heart. 

Suddenly  the  ducks  would  come  into  view  ... 
dark  forms  with  ghostly  blurs  for  wings,  shooting 
with  a  roar  into  the  red  flare  of  light.  The  flash 
of  his  shotgun  would  leap  out  twice.  The  star- 
tled birds  would  bound  into  the  air  like  blasted 

[230] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

rock  from  a  quarry,  and  be  lost  in  the  purple 
mystery  of  sky,  except  two  or  three  that  hurtled 
over  and  over  and  struck  the  water,  each  with  a 
loud  spat,  throwing  up  little  jets  of  gold. 

Sometimes  there  were  long  waits  between  shots, 
but  at  others  the  flight  was  almost  continuous,  the 
air  seemed  full  of  darting  birds,  and  the  gun 
barrels  were  hot  in  his  hands.  His  excitement 
would  be  intense  for  a  time;  yet  after  he  had 
killed  a  dozen  birds  or  so  he  would  often  lose 
interest  and  lie  on  his  back  listening  to  the  music 
of  wings  and  of  bird  voices.  He  had  that  aver- 
sion to  excess  which  seems  to  be  in  all  Latin 
peoples.  Besides,  he  did  not  want  many  ducks  to 
dispose  of.  .  .  .It  was  the  rush  and  colour,  the 
dramatic  quality  of  the  thing  that  he  loved. 

Most  of  the  others  killed  to  the  limit  with  a 
fine  unflagging  lust  for  blood,  giving  a  brilliant 
demonstration  of  the  fact  that  civilized  man  is 
the  most  destructive  and  bloodthirsty  of  all  the 
predatory  mammals. 

The  coming  of  spring  was  marked  by  a  few 
heavy  rains,  followed  by  the  faint  greening  of  the 
cottonwood  trees  and  of  the  alfalfa  fields.  The 
grey  waste  of  the  mesa  showed  a  greenish  tinge, 
too,  heralding  its  brief  springtime  splendor  when 
it  would  be  rich  with  the  purple  of  wild-peas, 
pricked  out  in  the  morning  with  white  blossoms 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

of  the  prairie  primrose.  Now  and  then  a  great 
flock  of  geese  went  over  the  town,  following  the 
Rio  Grande  northward  half  a  mile  high,  their 
faint  wild  call  seeming  the  very  voice  of  this 
season  of  lust  and  wandering. 

Ramon  felt  restless  and  lost  interest  in  all  his 
usual  occupations.  He  began  to  make  plans  and 
preparations  for  going  to  the  mountains.  He 
bought  a  tent  and  a  new  rifle  and  overhauled  all 
his  camping  gear.  He  thought  he  was  getting 
ready  for  a  season  of  hard  work,  but  in  reality 
his  strongest  motive  was  the  springtime  longing 
for  the  road  and  the  out-of-doors.  He  was  sick 
of  whisky  and  women  and  hot  rooms  full  of 
tobacco  smoke. 

Withal  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  go  to 
Arriba  County,  follow  up  his  campaign  of  the 
preceding  fall,  arrange  a  timber  sale  if  possible 
so  that  he  might  buy  land,  and  above  all  see  that 
his  sheep  herds  were  properly  tended.  This  was 
the  crucial  season  in  the  sheep  business.  Like 
the  other  sheep  owners,  he  ranged  his  herds 
chiefly  over  the  public  domain,  and  he  gambled  on 
the  weather.  If  the  rain  continued  into  the  early 
summer  so  that  the  waterholes  were  filled  and 
the  grass  was  abundant,  he  would  have  a  good 
lamb  crop.  The  sale  of  part  of  this  and  of  the 
wool  he  would  shear  would  make  up  the  bulk  of 
his  income  for  the  year.  And  he  had  already 

[232] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

spent  that  income  and  a  little  more.  He  could 
not  afford  a  bad  year.  If  it  was  a  dry  spring, 
so  that  lambs  and  ewes  died,  he  would  be  seriously 
embarrassed.  In  any  case,  he  was  determined  to 
be  on  the  range  in  person  and  not  to  trust  the 
herders.  If  it  came  to  the  worst  and  the  spring 
was  dry  he  would  rent  mountain  range  from  the 
Forest  Service  and  rush  his  herds  to  the  upland 
pastures  as  early  as  possible.  He  was  not  at  all 
distressed  or  worried;  he  knew  what  he  was  about 
and  had  an  appetite  for  the  work. 

One  morning  when  he  was  in  the  midst  of  his 
preparations,  he  went  to  his  office  and  found  on 
the  desk  a  small  square  letter  addressed  in  a 
round,  upright,  hand.  This  letter  affected  him 
as  though  it  had  been  some  blossom  that  filled  the 
room  with  a  fragrant  narcotic  exhalation.  It 
quickened  the  beat  of  his  heart  like  a  drug.  It 
drove  thought  of  everything  else  out  of  his  mind. 
He  opened  it  and  the  faint  perfume  of  it  flowed 
over  him  and  possessed  his  senses  and  his 
imagination.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  long,  gossipy  letter  and  told  him  of 
nearly  everything  that  Julia  had  done  in  the  six 
months  since  they  had  parted  "forever".  The 
salient  fact  was  that  she  had  been  married.  A 
young  man  in  a  New  York  brokerage  office  who 
had  long  been  a  suitor  for  her  hand,  and  to  whom 
she  had  once  before  been  engaged  for  part  of  a 

[233] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

summer,  had  followed  the  Roths  to  Europe  and 
he  and  Julia  had  been  married  immediately  after 
their  return. 

"I  give  you  my  word,  I  don't  know  why  I  did 
it,"  she  wrote.  "Mother  wanted  me  to,  and  I 
just  sort  of  drifted  into  it.  First  thing  I  knew  I 
was  engaged  and  the  next  thing  mother  was  send- 
ing the  invitations  out,  and  then  I  was  in  for  it. 
It  was  a  good  deal  of  fun  being  engaged,  but 
when  it  came  to  being  married  I  was  scared  to 
death  and  couldn't  lift  my  voice  above  a  whisper. 
Since  then  it  has  been  rather  a  bore.  Now  my 
husband  has  been  called  to  London.  I  am  living 
alone  here  in  this  hotel.  That  is,  more  or  less 
alone.  A  frightful  lot  of  people  come  around 
and  bore  me,  and  I  have  to  go  out  a  good  deal. 
I'm  supposed  to  be  looking  for  an  apartment,  too; 
but  I  haven't  really  started  yet.  Ralph  won't 
be  back  for  another  two  or  three  weeks,  so  I 
have  plenty  of  time. 

"I  don't  know  why  in  the  world  I'm  writing 
you  this  long  frightfully  intimate  letter.  I  don't 
seem  to  know  why  I  do  anything  these  days.  I 
know  its  most  improper  for  a  respectable  married 
lady,  and  I  certainly  have  no  reason  to  suppose 
you  want  to  be  bothered  by  me  any  more  after  the 
way  I  did.  But  somehow  you  stick  in  the  back 
of  my  head.  You  might  write  me  a  line,  just  out 
of  compassion,  if  you're  not  too  busy  with  all 

[234] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

your  sheep  and  mountains  and  things."  She 
signed  herself  "as  ever",  which,  he  reflected  bitter- 
ly, might  mean  anything. 

At  first  the  fact  that  she  was  married  wholly 
engaged  his  attention.  She  was  then  finally  and 
forever  beyond  his  reach.  This  was  the  end  sure 
enough.  He  was  not  going  to  start  any  long 
aimless  correspondence  with  her  to  keep  alive  the 
memory  of  his  disappointment.  He  planned 
various  brief  and  chilly  notes  of  congratula- 
tion. .  .  .  Then  another  thought  took  precedence 
over  that  one.  She  was  alone  there  in  that  hotel. 
Her  husband  was  in  London.  She  had  written  to 
him  and  given  him  her  address.  .  .  .  His  blood 
pounded  and  his  breath  came  quick.  He  made 
his  decision  instantly,  on  impulse.  He  would  go 
to  New  York. 

He  wired  the  hotel  where  she  was  stopping  for 
a  reservation,  but  sent  no  word  at  all  to  her.  He 
gave  the  bewildered  and  troubled  Cortez  brief 
orders  by  telephone  to  go  to  Arriba  County  in  his 
place,  arranged  a  note  at  the  bank  for  two  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  caught  the  limited  the  same 
night  at  seven-thirty-five. 


[235] 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

He  looked  at  New  York  through  a  taxicab 
window  without  much  interest.  A  large  damp 
grey  dirty  place,  very  crowded,  where  he  would 
not  like  to  live,  he  thought.  He  managed  him- 
self and  his  baggage  with  ease  and  dispatch;  his 
indifferent,  dignified  manner  and  his  reckless  use 
of  money  were  ideally  effective  with  porters,  taxi 
drivers  and  the  like.  When  he  reached  the  hotel 
about  eight  o'clock  at  night  he  went  to  his  room 
and  made  himself  carefully  immaculate.  He 
studied  himself  with  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  the 
full  length  mirror  which  was  set  in  the  bath  room 
door;  for  he  had  seldom  encountered  such  a  mirror 
and  he  had  a  considerable  amount  of  vanity  of 
which  he  was  not  at  all  conscious.  It  struck  him 
that  he  was  remarkably  good-looking,  and  indeed 
he  was  more  so  than  usual,  his  eyes  bright,  his 
face  flushed,  his  whole  body  tense  and  poised  with 
purpose  and  expectation. 

He  went  down  to  the  lobby,  looked  Julia  up  in 
the  register,  ascertained  the  number  of  her  room, 
and  made  a  note  of  it.  Then  he  asked  the  tel- 
ephone girl  to  call  her  and  learn  whether  she 
was  in. 

[236] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Yes;  she  is  in.  She  wants  to  know  who's 
calling,  please." 

"Tell  her  an  old  friend  who  wants  to  surprise 
her."  He  did  not  care  to  risk  any  evasion,  and 
he  also  wanted  his  arrival  to  have  its  full  dra- 
matic effect. 

The  telephone  girl  transmitted  his  message. 

"She  says  she  can't  come  down  yet  .  .  .  not 
for  about  half  an  hour." 

"Tell  her  I'll  wait.  If  she  asks  for  me  I'll  be 
in  that  little  room  there."  He  pointed  to  a 
small  reception  room  opening  off  the  mezzanine 
gallery,  which  he  had  selected  in  advance.  He 
had  planned  everything  carefully. 

When  he  stood  up  to  meet  her  she  gave  a  little 
gasp,  and  took  a  step  back. 

"Why,  you!  Ramon!  How  could  you? 
You  shouldn't  have  come.  You  know  you 
shouldn't.  I  didn't  mean  that  ...  I  had  no 
idea.  .  .  ." 

He  came  forward  and  took  her  hand  and  led 
her  to  a  settee.  Despite  all  her  protests  he  could 
see  very  plainly  that  he  had  scored  heavily  in  his 
own  favour.  She  was  flustered  with  excitement 
and  pleasure.  Like  all  women,  she  was  cap- 
tivated by  sudden,  decisive  action  and  loved  the 
surprising  and  the  dramatic. 

They  sat  side  by  side,  looking  at  each  other, 

[237] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

smiling,  making  unimportant  remarks,  and  then 
looking  at  each  other  again.  Ramon  felt  that 
she  had  changed.  She  was  as  pretty  as  ever,  and 
never  had  she  stirred  him  more  strongly.  But  her 
appeal  seemed  more  immediate  than  before;  she 
seemed  less  remote.  The  innocence  of  her  wide 
eyes  was  a  little  less  noticeable  and  their  flash  of 
recklessness  a  little  more  so.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  her  mouth  was  larger,  which  may  have  been 
due  to  the  fact  that  she  had  rouged  it  a  little  too 
much.  She  woi*e  a  pink  decollete  with  straps  over 
the  shoulders  one  of  which  kept  slipping  down 
and  had  to  be  pulled  up  again. 

Ramon  was  tremulous  with  a  half-acknowledged 
anticipation,  but  he  held  himself  strongly  in  hand. 
He  felt  that  he  had  an  advantage  over  her — 
that  he  was  more  at  ease  and  she  less  so  than  at 
any  previous  meeting — and  he  meant  to  keep  it. 

But  she  was  rapidly  regaining  her  composure, 
and  took  refuge  in  a  rather  formal  manner. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  here  long?"  she  enquired 
in  the  conventional  tone  of  mock-interest. 

"Just  a  week  or  so  on  business,"  he  explained, 
determined  not  to  be  outpointed  in  the  game.  "I 
had  to  come  some  time  this  spring,  and  when  I  got 
your  note  I  thought  I  would  come  while  you  are 
here." 

"But  I'll  be  here  the  rest  of  my  life  probably. 
This  is  where  I  live.  You  ought  to  have  come 

[238] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

when  my  husband  was  here.  I'd  like  to  have  you 
meet  him.  As  it  is,  I  can't  see  much  of  you,  of 
course.  .  .  ." 

He  refused  to  be  put  out  by  "this  coldness,  but 
tried  to  strike  a  more  intimate  note. 

"Tell  me  about  your  marriage,"  he  asked. 
"Are  you  really  happy?  .  .  .  Do  you  like  it?" 

She  looked  at  the  floor  gravely. 

"You  shouldn't  ask  that,  of  course,"  she  re- 
proved. "Everyone  who  has  just  been  married 
is  very,  very  happy.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  like  it  a 
darn  bit." 

"It's  not  what  you  expected,  then." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  expected,  but  from  the 
way  people  talk  about  it  and  write  about  it  you 
would  certainly  think  it  was  something  wonderful 
— love  and  passion  and  bliss  and  all  that,  I  mean. 
I  feel  that  I've  either  been  lied  to  or  cheated  .  .  . 
of  course"  she  added  with  a  little  side  glance  at 
him,  "I  didn't  exactly  love  my  husband.  .  .  ." 
She  blushed  and  looked  down  again;  then  laughed 
softly  and  rather  joyfully  for  a  lady  with  a  broken 
heart. 

"If  mother  could  only  hear  me  now!"  she 
observed.  .  .  .  "She'd  faint.  I  don't  care.  .  .  . 
That's  just  the  way  I  feel.  ...  I  don't  care! 
All  my  life  I've  been  trained  and  groomed  and 
prepared  for  the  grand  and  glorious  event  of 
marriage.  I've  been  taught  it's  the  most  wonder- 

[239] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

ful  thing  that  can  happen  to  anyone.  That's  what 
all  the  books  say,  and  all  the  people  I  know. 
And  here  it  turns  out  to  be  a  most  uncomfortable 
bore.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  gravely  sympathetic. 

"Do  you  think  it  would  have  been  different 
with — someone  you  did  love?"  he  enquired 
cautiously. 

She  gave  him  another  quick  thrilling  glance. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "Maybe.  .  .  . 
I  felt  so  different  about  you." 

Their  hands  met  on  the  settee  and  they  both 
moved  instinctively  a  little  closer  together. 

Suddenly  she  jerked  away  from  him,  looking 
him  in  the  eyes  with  her  head  thrown  back  and 
a  smile  of  irony  on  her  lips. 

"Aren't  we  a  couple  of  idiots?"  she  demanded. 

"No !"  he  declared  with  fierce  emphasis,  and 
throwing  an  arm  about  her,  pounced  on  her  lips. 

Just  then  a  bell  boy  passed  the  door.  They 
jerked  apart  and  upright  very  self-consciously. 
Then  they  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed.  But 
their  eyes  quickly  became  deep  and  serious  again, 
and  their  fingers  entangled. 

She  sighed  in  mock  exasperation. 

For  Heaven's  sake,  say  something!"  she 
demanded.  "We  can't  sit  here  and  make  eyes  at 
each  other  all  evening.  Besides  I'm  compromis- 
ing my  priceless  reputation.  It's  after  ten  o'clock. 
[240] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

I've  got  to  go."  She  rose,  and  held  out  her  hand, 
which  he  took  without  saying  anything. 

"Good  night,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  were 
mean  to  come  and  camp  on  me  this  way  .  .  . 
dumb  as  ever,  I  see  ...  well,  good  night." 

She  went  to  the  door,  stopped  and  looked  back, 
smiled  and  disappeared. 

Ramon  went  down  to  the  lobby  and  roamed 
all  over  the  two  floors  which  constituted  the  public 
part  of  the  hotel.  He  looked  at  everything  and 
smoked  a  great  many  cigarettes,  thus  restlessly 
whiling  away  an  hour.  Then  he  went  to  a  writing 
room.  He  collected  some  telegrams  and  letters 
about  him  and  appeared  to  be  very  busy.  When 
a  bell  boy  went  by,  he  rapped  sharply  on  the  desk 
with  a  fifty-cent  piece,  and  as  the  boy  stopped, 
tossed  it  to  him. 

"Get  me  the  key  to  207 !"  he  ordered  sharply; 
then  turned  back  to  his  imaginary  business. 

"Yes  sir."  said  the  boy.  He  returned  in  a  few 
minutes  with  the  key. 

Ramon  sat  for  a  long  moment  looking  at  it, 
tremulous  with  a  great  anticipation.  He  was 
divided  between  a  conviction  that  she  expected 
him  and  a  fear  that  she  did  not.  .  .  .  His  fear 
proved  groundless. 


[241] 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

The  next  day  they  met  for  dinner  at  a  little 
place  near  Washington  Square  where  it  was  certain 
that  none  of  Julia's  friends  ever  went.  Julia 
was  a  singularly  contented-looking  criminal. 
Never,  Ramon  thought  had  her  skin  looked  more 
velvety,  her  eyes  deeper  or  more  serene.  He 
was  a  trifle  haggard,  but  happy,  and  both  of  them 
were  hungry. 

"Do  you  know?  .  .  .  I've  made  a  discovery," 
she  told  him.  "I  haven't  any  conscience.  I  slept 
peacefully  nearly  all  day,  and  when  I  waked  up  I 
considered  the  matter  carefully  ...  I  don't 
believe  that  I  have  any  proper  appreciation  of  the 
enormity  of  what  I've  done  at  all.  I  have  always 
thought  that  if  anything  like  this  ever  happened 
to  me  I  would  go  off  and  chloroform  myself,  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact  I  have  no  such  intention  .  .  . 
of  course,  though,  it  was  not  my  fault  in  the  least. 
You're  so  terrible !  .  .  .  I  simply  couldn't  help 
myself,  and  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do  now  .  .  . 
that's  comforting.  But  one  thing  is  certain. 
We've  got  to  be  awfully  careful.  Thank  Heaven, 
mother  and  Gordon  are  still  in  Florida  and  they 
won't  dare  to'  come  North  on  Gordon's  account 
[242] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

until  it  gets  a  good  deal  warmer.  But  we  must 
be  careful.  I'm  not  sorry,  like  I  should  be,  but 
I  sure  am  scared.  .  .  ." 

They  sat  for  a  long  time  after  the  meal,  Ramon 
smoking  a  cigar,  their  knees  touching  under  the 
table.  He  was  filled  with  a  vast  contentment. 
He  thought  nothing  of  the  troubled  past,  nor  did 
he  look  into  the  obviously  troubled  future.  He 
merely  basked  in  the  consciousness  of  a  possession 
infinitely  sweet. 

Now  began  for  them  a  life  of  clandestine 
adventure.  Julia  had  a  good  many  engagements, 
but  she  managed  to  give  him  some  part  of  every 
day.  They  never  met  in  the  hotel,  but  usually 
took  taxicabs  separately  and  met  in  out-of-the-way 
parts  of  that  great  free  wilderness  of  city. 
Ramon  spent  most  of  the  time  when  he  was  not 
with  her  exploring  for  suitable  meeting  places. 
They  became  patrons  of  cellar  restaurants  in 
Greenwich  Village,  of  French  and  Italian  places 
far  down  town,  of  obscure  Brooklyn  hotels.  If 
the  regular  fare  at  these  establishments  was  not 
all  they  desired,  Ramon  would  lavishly  bribe  the 
head  waiter,  call  the  proprietor  into  consultation 
if  necessary,  insist  on  getting  what  Julia  wanted. 
He  spent  his  money  like  a  millionaire,  and  usually 
created  the  general  impression  that  he  was  a 
wealthy  foreigner.  Every  morning  he  had 
flowers  sent  to  Julia's  room.  Often  they  would 

[243] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

take  a  taxi  and  spend  hours  riding  about  the 
streets  with  the  blinds  drawn,  locked  in  each 
others'  arms. 

For  a  week  they  were  keenly,  excitedly  happy, 
living  wholly  in  the  joy  of  the  moment.  Then  a 
flaw  appeared  upon  the  glowing  perfect  surface 
of  their  happiness. 

"When  is  your  husband  coming  back?"  he 
enquired  once,  when  they  were  riding  through 
Central  Park. 

"I  don't  know.     In  a  week  or  two.     Why?" 

"Because  we  must  decide  pretty  soon  what  we're 
going  to  do." 

"Do?     What  can  we  do?" 

"We  must  decide  where  we're  going.  You 
must  go  with  me  somewhere.  I'm  not  going  to 
let  you  get  away  from  me  again  .  .  .  not  even 
.for  a  little  while." 

"But  Ramon,  how  can  we?  I'm  married.  I 
can't  go  anywhere  with  you.  .  .  ." 

He  seized  her  fiercely  by  the  shoulders  and 
held  her  away  from  him,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"Don't  you  love  me,  then?"  he  demanded. 

"Ramon!     You  know  I  do!" 

"Then  you'll  go.  We  can  go  to  Mexico  City,  or 
South  America  .  .  .  I'll  sell  out  at  home.  .  .  ." 

"O,  Ramon  ...  I  can't.  I  haven't  got  the 
courage.  Think  of  the  fuss  it  would  raise.  And 
it  would  kill  Gordon,  I  know  it  would.  ..." 

[244] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

"Damn  Gordon !"  he  exclaimed,  "he's  not  going 
to  get  in  the  way  again!  You're  mine  and  I'm 
going  to  keep  you.  You  will  go.  I'll  take  you !" 

He  had  seized  her  in  his  arms,  was  holding  her 
furiously  tight.  She  put  her  arms  around  him, 
caressed  his  face  with  soft  fluttering  hands. 

"Please,  Ramon!  Please  don't  make  me 
miserable.  Don't  spoil  the  only  happiness  I  ever 
had !  I  will  go  with  you  if  ever  I  can,  if  I  can  get 
a  divorce  or  something.  But  I  can't  run  off  like 
that.  I  haven't  got  it  in  me  ...  please  let  me 
be  happy!" 

Her  touch  and  her  voice  seemed  to  overcome 
his  determination,  seemed  to  sheer  him  of  his 
strength.  Weaker  she  was  than  he,  but  her  charm 
was  her  power.  It  dragged  him  away  from  his 
thoughts  and  purposes,  binding  him  to  her  and  to 
the  moment.  .  .  .  She  drew  his  head  down  to  her 
breast,  found  his  lips  with  hers  and  so  effectively 
cut  his  protests  short. 

The  cream  of  his  happiness  was  gone. 
Always  when  he  was  alone,  he  was  thinking  and 
planning  how  he  could  keep  her.  All  of  his 
possessiveness  was  aroused.  He  wanted  her  to 
have  a  baby.  Somehow  he  felt  that  then  his  con- 
quest would  be  complete,  that  then  he  would  be 
at  peace.  .  .  . 

He  said  nothing  more  to  Julia  because  he  saw 

[245] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

that  it  was  useless.  He  began  to  understand  her 
a  little.  It  was  futile  to  ask  her  to  make  a  deci- 
sion, to  take  any  initiative.  She  could  hold  out 
forever  against  pleas  which  involved  an  effort  of 
the  will  on  her  part.  And  yet  as  he  knew  she 
could  yield  charmingly  to  pressure  adroitly 
applied.  If  he  had  asked  her  to  meet  him  in  New 
York  this  way,  he  reflected,  she  would  have  been 
horrified,  she  would  never  have  consented.  But 
when  he  came,  suddenly,  that  had  been  different. 
So  it  was  now.  If  he  could  only  form  a  really 
good  plan,  and  then  put  her  in  a  cab  and  take  her 
.  .  .  that  would  be  the  only  way.  The  difficulty 
was  to  form  the  plan.  He  had  capacity  for 
sudden  and  decisive  action.  He  lacked  neither 
courage  nor  resolution.  But  when  it  came  to 
making  a  plan  which  would  require  much  time  and 
patience,  he  found  his  limitations. 

What  could  he  do?  he  asked  himself,  not  realiz- 
ing that  in  formulating  the  question  he  acknowl- 
edged his  impotence.  If  he  went  away  and  left 
her  while  he  settled  his  affairs,  she  was  lost  as 
surely  as  a  bird  released  from  a  cage.  The  idea 
of  Mexico  City  allured  him.  But  he  had  hardly 
enough  money  to  take  them  there.  How  could  he 
raise  money  on  short  notice?  It  would  take  time 
to  settle  his  estate  in  New  Mexico  and  get  anything 
out  of  it.  ... 

Two  unrealized  facts  lay  at  the  root   of  his 

[246] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

difficulty.  One  was  that  he  had  no  capacity  for 
large  and  intricate  plans,  and  the  other  was  that 
he  felt  bound  as  by  an  invisible  tether  to  the  land 
where  he  had  been  born. 

As  he  struggled  with  all  these  conflicting  consid- 
erations and  emotions,  his  head  fairly  ached  with 
futile  effort.  He  was  glad  to  lay  it  upon  Julia's 
soft  bosom,  to  forget  everything  else  again  in  the 
sweetness  of  a  stolen  moment. 


[247] 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

He  had  been  in  New  York  about  ten  days  when 
he  awoke  one  morning  near  noon.  An  immense 
languor  possessed  him.  He  had  been  with  Julia 
the  night  before  and  never  had  she  been  more 
charming,  more  abandoned.  .  .  .  He  ordered  his 
breakfast  to  be  sent  up,  and  then  stretched  out  in 
bed  and  lit  an  expensive  Russian  cigarette.  He 
had  that  love  of  sensuous  indolence,  which, 
together  with  its  usual  complement,  the  capacity 
for  brief  but  violent  action,  marked  him  as  a 
primitive  man — one  whom  the  regular  labors  and 
restraints  of  civilization  would  never  fit. 

His  telephone  bell  rang,  and  when  he  took 
down  the  receiver  he  heard  Julia's  voice.  It  was 
not  unusual  for  her  to  call  him  about  this  time, 
but  what  she  told  him  now  caused  a  blank  and 
hapless  look  to  come  over  his  face.  She  was  not 
in  her  room,  but  in  another  hotel. 

•"My  husband  got  in  this  morning,"  she  ex- 
plained in  a  voice  that  was  thin  with  misery  and 
confusion.  "I  got  his  message  last  night,  but  I 
didn't  tell  you  because  I  knew  it  would  spoil  our 
last  time  together,  and  I  was  afraid  you  would  do 
something  foolish.  .  .  .  Please  say  you're  not 

[248] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

angry.  You  know  there  was  nothing  for  it.  We 
couldn't  have  done  any  of  those  wild  things  you 
talked  about.  I'll  always  love  you,  honestly  I 
will.  Won't  you  even  say  goodby?  .  .  ." 

He  at  last  did  say  goodby  and  hung  up  the 
receiver  and  went  across  the  room  and  sat  in  an 
armchair.  It  suddenly  struck  him  that  he  was 
very  tired.  He  had  not  realized  it  before  .  .  . 
how  tired  he  was.  There  was  none  of  the  mad 
rebellion  in  him  now  that  had  filled  him  when  first 
she  had  run  away  from  him.  Although  he  had 
never  acknowledged  it  to  himself  he  had  been 
more  than  half  prepared  for  this.  He  had  told 
himself  that  he  was  going  to  do  something  bold 
and  decisive,  but  he  had  procrastinated;  he  had 
never  really  formed  a  plan. 

Weariness  was  his  leading  emotion.  He  was 
spent,  physically  and  emotionally.  He  wanted 
her  almost  as  much  as  ever.  While  she  was  no 
longer  the  remote  and  dazzling  star  she  had  been, 
the  bond  of  flesh  that  had  been  created  between 
them  seemed  a  stronger,  a  more  constant  thing 
than  blinding  unsatisfied  desire.  But  a  great 
despair  possessed  him.  There  was  so  obviously 
nothing  he  could  do.  Just  as  his  other  disappoint- 
ment had  given  him  his  first  stinging  impression  of 
the  irony  of  life,  that  cunningly  builds  a  hope  and 
then  smashes  it;  so  now  he  felt  for  the  first  time 
something  of  the  helplessness  of  man  in  the 

[249] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

current  of  his  destiny,  driven  by  deep-laid  desires 
he  seldom  understands,  and  ruled  by  chances  he 
can  never  calculate.  From  love  a  man  learns 
life  in  quick  and  painful  flashes. 

Through  the  open  window  came  the  din  of  the 
New  York  street — purr  and  throb  of  innumerable 
engines,  rumble  and  clatter  of  iron  wheels,  tapping 
of  thousands  of  restless  feet,  making  a  blended 
current  of  sound  upon  which  floated  and  tossed  the 
shrillness  of  police  whistles  and  newsboys'  voices 
and  auto  horns.  It  had  been  the  background  of 
his  life  during  memorable  days.  Once  it  had 
stirred  his  pulses,  seeming  a  wild  accompaniment 
to  the  song  of  his  passion.  Now  it  wearied  him 
inexpressibly;  it  seemed  to  be  hammering  in  his 
ears;  he  wanted  to  get  away  from  it.  He  would 
go  home  that  day. 

,As  always  on  his  trips  across  the  continent  he 
sat  apathetically  smoking  through  the  wide  green 
lushness  of  the  middle  west.  Only  when  the 
cultivated  lands  gave  way  to  barren  hills  and 
faint  blue  mountains  peeping  over  far  horizons 
did  he  turn  to  the  window  and  forget  his  misery 
and  his  weariness.  How  it  spoke  to  his  heart, 
this  country  of  his  own !  He  who  loved  no  man, 
who  had  gone  to  women  with  desire  and  come 
away  with  bitterness,  loved  a  vast  and  barren 
land,  baking  in  the  sun.  The  sight  of  it  quickened 
[250] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

his  pulses,  softened  and  soothed  his  spirit.  Like 
a  good  liquor  it  nursed  and  beautified  whatever 
mood  was  in  him.  When  he  had  come  back  to  it 
a  year  before,  it  had  spoken  to  him  of  hope,  its 
mysterious  distances  had  seemed  full  of  promise 
and  hidden  possibility.  And  now  that  he  came 
back  to  it  with  hopes  broken,  weary  in  mind  and 
body,  it  seemed  the  very  voice  of  rest.  He 
thought  of  long  cool  nights  in  the  mountains  and 
of  the  lullaby  that  wind  and  water  sing,  of  the 
soothing  monotony  of  empty  sunlit  levels,  of  the 
cool  caress  of  deep,  green  pools,  of  the  sweet 
satisfaction  that  goes  with  physical  weariness  and 
a  full  belly  and  a  bed  upon  the  ground. 

But  when  on  the  last  morning  of  his  journey  he 
waked  up  within  a  hundred  miles  of  home,  and 
less  than  half  that  far  from  his  own  mountain 
lands,  his  new-found  comfort  quickly  changed  to 
a  keen  anxiety.  For  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  the 
country  was  under  the  blight  of  drought.  The 
hills  that  should  have  borne  a  good  crop  of 
gramma  grass  at  this  time  of  the  year,  if  the  rains 
had  been  even  fair,  were  nothing  but  bare  red 
earth  from  which  the  rocks  and  the  great  roots  of 
the  pinion  trees  stood  out  like  the  bones  of  a 
starving  animal.  Here  and  there  on  the  hillsides 
he  could  see  a  scrubby  pine  that  had  died,  its 
needles  turned  rust-red — the  sure  sign  of  a  serious 
drought. 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

During  the  half  month  that  he  had  been  gone 
he  had  thought  not  once  of  his  affairs  at  home. 
The  moment  had  absorbed  him  completely.  Now 
it  all  came  back  to  him  suddenly.  When  he  had 
left,  the  promise  of  the  season  had  been  good. 
It  had  not  rained  for  more  than  a  week,  but  every- 
one had  been  expecting  rain  every  day.  It  was 
clear  to  him  that  the  needed  rain  had  never  come. 
And  he  knew  just  what  that  meant  to  him.  It 
meant  that  he  had  lost  lambs  and  ewes,  that  he 
would  have  no  money  this  year  with  which  to 
meet  his  notes  at  the  bank.  He  sank  deep  in 
despair  and  disgust  again.  Not  only  was  the 
assault  on  his  fortunes  a  serious  one,  but  he  felt 
little  inclined  to  meet  it.  He  was  weary  of  strug- 
gle. He  saw  before  him  a  long  slow  fight  to  get 
on  his  feet  again,  with  the  chance  of  ultimate 
failure  if  he  had  another  bad  year. 

The  Mexicans  firmly  believe,  in  the  face  of 
much  evidence  to  the  contrary,  that  seven  wet 
years  are  always  followed  by  seven  dry  ones.  He 
had  heard  the  saying  gravely  repeated  many 
times.  He  more  than  half  believed  it.  And  he 
knew  that  for  a  good  many  years,  perhaps  as 
many  as  six  or  seven,  the  rains  had  been  remark- 
ably good.  He  was  intelligent,  but  superstition 
was  bred  in  his  bones.  Like  all  men  of  a  prim- 
itive type  he  had  a  strong  tendency  to  believe  in 

[252] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

fortune  as  a  deliberate  force  in  the  affairs  of  men. 
It  seemed  clear  to  him  now,  in  his  depressed  and 
exhausted  condition,  that  bad  luck  had  marked 
him  for  its  prey. 


[253] 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

His  forebodings  were  confirmed  in  detail  the 
next  morning  when  Cortez  came  into  his  office, 
his  face  wrinkled  with  worry  and  darkened  by 
exposure  to  the  weather.  He  was  angry  too. 

"For  Dios,  man !  To  go  off  like  that  and  not 
even  leave  me  an  address.  If  I  could  have  gotten 
more  money  to  hire  men  I  might  have  saved  some 
of  them  .  .  .  yes,  more  than  half  of  the  lambs 
died,  and  many  of  the  ewes.  There  is  nothing 
to  do  now.  They  are  on  the  best  of  the  range, 
and  it  has  begun  to  rain  in  the  mountains.  But 
it  is  too  bad.  It  cost  you  many  thousands  .  .  . 
that  trip  to  New  York." 

Ramon  gave  Cortez  a  cigar  to  soothe  his 
sensibilities,  thanked  him  with  dignity  for  his  loyal 
services,  and  sent  him  away.  Then  he  put  on 
his  hat  and  went  outside  to  walk  and  think. 

The  town  seemed  to  him  quiet  as  though  half- 
deserted.  This  was  partly  by  contrast  with  the 
place  of  din  which  he  had  just  left,  and  partly 
because  this  was  the  dull  season,  when  the  first 
hot  spell  of  summer  drove  many  away  from  the 
town  and  kept  those  who  remained  in  their  houses 
most  of  the  day.  The  sandy  streets  caught  the 

[254] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

sun  and  cherished  it  in  a  merciless  glare.  They 
were  baked  so  hot  that  barefoot  urchins  hopped 
gingerly  from  one  patch  of  shade  to  the  next. 
In  the  numerous  vacant  lots  rank  jungles  of  weeds 
languished  in  the  dry  heat,  and  long  blue-tailed 
lizards,  veritable  heat-sprites,  emerged  to  frolic 
and  doze  on  deserted  sidewalks.  The  leaves  of 
the  cottonwoods  hung  limp,  and  the  white  downy 
tufts  that  carried  their  seeds  everywhere  drifted 
and  swam  in  the  shimmering  air.  The  river  had 
shrunk  to  a  string  of  shallow  pools  in  a  sandy 
plain,  the  irrigation  ditches  were  empty,  and  in 
Old  Town  the  Mexicans  were  asking  God  for 
rain  by  carrying  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
about  on  a  litter  and  firing  muskets  into  the  air. 
Quickly  wearied,  Ramon  sat  down  on  a  shaded 
bench  in  the  park  and  tried  to  think  out  his  situa- 
tion and  to  decide  what  he  should  do.  The  easy 
way  was  to  sell  out,  pay  his  debts,  provide  for  his 
mother  and  sister  and  with  what  was  left  go  his 
own  way — buy  a  little  ranch  perhaps  in  the  moun- 
tains or  in  the  valley  where  he  could  live  in  peace 
and  do  as  he  pleased.  Wearied  as  he  was  by 
struggle  and  disappointment,  this  prospect  allured 
him,  and  yet  he  could  not  quite  accept  it.  He 
felt  vaguely  the  fact  that  in  selling  his  lands,  he 
would  be  selling  out  to  fate,  he  would  be  surren- 
dering to  MacDougall,  to  the  gringos,  he  would 
be  renouncing  all  his  high  hopes  and  dreams. 

[255] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

His  mountain  lands,  with  their  steadily  increasing 
value,  the  power  they  gave  him,  would  make  of 
his  life  a  thing  of  possibilities — an  adventure. 
Settled  on  a  little  ranch  somewhere,  his  whole 
story  would  be  told  in  one  of  its  years. 

This  he  did  not  reason  clearly,  but  the  emo- 
tional struggle  within  him  was  therefore  all  the 
stronger.  It  was  his  old  struggle  in  another 
j  guise — the  struggle  between  the  primitive  being 
in  him  and  the  civilized,  between  earth  and  the 
world  of  men.  Each  of  them  in  turn  filled  his 
mind  with  images  and  emotions,  and  he  was  im- 
potent to  judge  between  them. 

His  being  was  fairly  rooted  in  the  soil,  and  the 
]  anim'at  happiness    it    offered — the    free   play    of 
;  instinct,    the   sweetness   of  being  physically   and 
I  emotionally  at  peace  with  environment — was  the 
j   only  happiness  he  had  ever  known.     Vaguely  yet 
surely  he  had  felt  the  world  of  men  and  works, 
the  artificial  world,  to  contain  something  larger 
and  more  beautiful  than  this.     Julia   Roth  had 
been  to  him  a  stimulating  symbol  of  this  higher, 
this  more  desirable  thing.     His  love  for  her  had 
/  been  the  soil  in  which  his  aspirations  had  grown. 
That   love   had   turned    to   bitterness    and   lust, 
and  his  aspirations  had  led  him  among  greeds  and 
fears  and  struggles  that  differed  from  those  of 
the  wild  things  only  in  that  they  were  covert  and 

[256] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

devious,  lacking  the  free  beauty  of  instinct  fear- 
lessly followed  and  the  dignity  of  open  battle. 
Of  civilization  he  had  encountered  only  the  raw 
and  ugly  edge,  which  is  uglier  than  savagery.  He 
knew  no  more  of  the  true  spirit  of  it  than  a  man 
who  has  camped  in  a  farmer's  back  pasture  knows 
of  the  true  spirit  of  wildness.  It  had  treated 
him  without  mercy  and  brought  out  the  worst  of 
him.  And  yet  because  he  had  once  loved  and 
dreamed  he  could  not  go  back  to  the  easy  but 
limited  satisfactions  of  the  soil  and  be  wholly 
content. 

So  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  at  first  to 
surrender,  but  in  the  next  few  days  one  thing 
after  another  came  to  tempt  him  that  way.  Mac- 
Dougall  made  him  an  offer  for  his  lands  which 
to  his  surprise  was  a  little  better  than  the  last  one. 
He  learned  afterward  that  the  over-shrewd 
lawyer  had  misinterpreted  his  trip  to  New  York, 
imagining  that  he  had  gone  there  to  interest 
eastern  capital  in  his  lands. 

His  mother  and  sister  were  two  very  cogent 
arguments  in  favour  of  selling.  The  Dona 
Delcasar,  a  simple  and  vain  old  lady,  now 
regarded  herself  as  a  woman  of  wealth,  and  was 
always  after  him  for  money.  Her  ambition  was 
to  build  a  house  in  the  Highlands  and  serve  tea 
at  four  o'clock  (although  it  was  thick  chocolate 

[257] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

she  liked)  and  break  into  society.  His  one 
discussion  of  the  matter  with  her  was  a  bitter 
experience. 

"Holy  Mary!"  she  exclaimed  in  her  shrill 
Spanish,  when  he  broached  a  plan  of  retrench- 
ment, "What  a  son  I  have !  You  spend  thousands 
on  yourself,  chasing  women  and  buying  automo- 
biles, and  now  you  want  us  to  spend  the  rest  of 
our  lives  in  this  old  house  and  walk  to  church  so 
that  you  can  make  it  up.  God,  but  men  are 
selfish!" 

He  saw  that  if  he  tried  to  save  money  and 
make  a  fight  for  his  lands  he  would  have  to 
struggle  not  only  with  MacDougall  and  the 
weather,  but  with  two  ignorant,  ambitious  and 
sharp-tongued  women.  And  family  pride  here 
fought  against  him.  He  did  not  want  to  see 
his  women  folk  go  shabbily  in  the  town.  He 
wanted  them  to  have  their  brick  house  and  their 
tea  parties,  and  to  uphold  the  name  of  Delcasar 
as  well  as  they  might. 

One  day  while  he  was  still  struggling  with  his 
problem  he  went  to  look  at  a  ranch  that  was 
offered  for  sale  in  the  valley  a  few  miles  north  of 
town.  It  was  this  place  more  than  anything  else 
which  decided  him.  The  old  house  had  been 
built  by  one  of  his  ancestors  almost  a  hundred 
years  before,  and  had  then  been  the  seat  of  an 
estate  which  embraced  all  the  valley  and  mesa 

[258] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

lands  for  miles  in  every  direction.  It  had  changed 
hands  several  times  and  there  were  now  but  a 
few  hundred  acres.  The  woodwork  of  the  house 
was  in  bad  repair,  but  its  adobe  walls,  three  feet 
thick,  were  firm  as  ever.  There  were  still  traces 
of  the  adobe  stockade  behind  it,  with  walls  ten 
feet  high,  and  the  building  which  had  housed  the 
peones  was  still  standing,  now  filled  with  fragrant 
hay.  Jn  front  of  it  stood  an  old  cedar  post  with 
rusty  iron  rings  to  which  the  recalcitrant  field 
hands  had  been  bound  for  beating. 

Every  detail  of  this  home  of  his  forefathers 
stirred  his  emotions.  The  ancient  cottonwood 
trees  in  front  of  the  house  with  their  deep, 
welcome  shade  and  the  soft  voices  of  courting 
doves  among  the  leaves;  the  alfalfa  fields  heavy 
with  purple  blossom,  ripe  for  cutting;  the  orchard 
of  old  apple  trees  and  thickets  of  Indian  plum 
run  wild;  the  neglected  vineyard  that  could  be 
made  to  yield  several  barrels  of  red  wine — all 
of  these  things  spoke  to  him  with  subtle  voices. 
To  trade  his  heritage  for  this  was  to  trade  hope 
and  hazard  for  monotonous  ease;  but  with  the 
smell  of  the  yielding  earth  in  his  nostrils,  he  no 
more  thought  of  this  than  a  man  in  love  thinks  of 
the  long  restraints  and  irks  of  marriage  when  the 
kiss  of  his  woman  is  on  his  lips. 


[259] 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

Ramon's  life  on  his  farm  quickly  fell  into  a 
routine  that  was  for  the  most  part  pleasant.  He 
hired  an  old  woman  to  do  his  cooking  and  wash- 
ing, and  a  man  to  work  on  the  place.  Other 
men  he  hired  as  he  needed  them,  and  he  spent 
most  of  his  days  working  with  them  as  a  foreman. 

He  attended  to  the  business  of  farming  ably. 
The  trees  of  the  old  orchard  he  pruned  and 
sprayed  and  he  set  out  new  ones.  He  put  his 
idle  land  under  irrigation  and  planted  it  in  corn 
and  alfalfa.  He  set  out  beds  of  strawberries 
and  asparagus.  He  bought  blooded  livestock 
and  chickens.  He  put  his  fences  in  repair  and 
painted  the  woodwork  of  his  house.  The  crea- 
tive energy  that  was  in  him  had  at  last  found  an 
outlet  which  was  congenial  though  somewhat 
picayune.  For  the  place  was  small  and  easily 
handled.  As  the  fall  came  on,  and  his  crops  had 
been  gathered  and  the  work  of  irrigation  was 
over  for  the  season,  he  found  himself  looking 
about  restlessly  for  something  to  do.  On  Sat- 
urday nights  he  generally  went  to  town,  had 
dinner  with  his  mother  and  sister,  and  spent  the 
evening  drinking  beer  and  playing  pool.  But  he 
[260] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

felt  increasingly  out  of  place  in  the  town;  his 
visits  there  were  prompted  more  by  filial  duty 
and  the  need  of  something  to  break  the  monotony 
of  his  week  than  by  a  real  sense  of  pleasure  in 
them. 

He  was  still  caring  for  Catalina  on  the  ranch 
up  the  valley,  and  when  the  woman  who  had  been 
doing  his  work  left  him,  he  decided  to  bring  the 
girl  to  his  place  and  let  her  earn  her  keep  by 
cooking  and  washing.  He  no  longer  felt  any 
interest  in  her,  and  thought  that  perhaps  she 
would  marry  Juan  Cardenas,  the  man  who  milked 
his  cows  and  chopped  wood  for  him.  But 
Catalina  showed  no  interest  in  Juan.  Instead, 
she  emphatically  rejected  all  his  advances,  and 
displayed  an  abject,  squaw-like  devotion  to 
Ramon's  welfare.  Everything  possible  was  done 
for  his  comfort  without  his  asking.  The  infant, 
now  almost  a  year  old,  was  trained  not  to  cry  in 
his  presence,  and  acquired  a  certain  awe  of  him, 
watching  him  with  large  solemn  eyes  whenever 
he  was  about.  Ramon,  reflecting  that  this  was 
his  son,  set  out  to  make  the  baby's  acquaintance, 
and  became  quite  fond  of  it.  He  often  played 
with  it  in  the  evening. 

He  paid  Catalina  regular  wages  and  she  spent 
most  of  the  money  on  clothes.  When  she 
prepared  herself  for  Church  on  Sunday  she  was 
a  truly  terrible  spectacle,  clad  in  an  ill-fitting 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

ready-made  suit  of  brilliant  colour,  and  wearing 
a  cheap  hat  on  which  a  dead  parrot  sprawled 
among  artificial  poppies,  while  her  swarthy  face, 
heavily  powdered,  took  on  a  purple  tinge.  But 
about  the  place,  dressed  in  clean  calico,  with  a 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  she  was  really  pretty. 
Her  figure  was  a  good  one  of  peasant  type,  and 
the  acquisition  of  some  shoes  which  fitted  her 
revealed  the  fact  that  she  had  inherited  from 
her  remote  Castilian  ancestry  a  small  and  shapely 
foot  and  ankle. 

Ramon  could  not  help  noticing  all  of  these 
things,  and  so  gradually  he  became  aware  of 
Catalina  again  as  a  desirable  woman,  and  one 
whom  it  was  easy  for  him  to  take. 

After  this  his  animal  contentment  was  deeper 
than  ever.  He  did  not  go  to  town  so  often,  for 
one  of  the  restlessnesses  which  had  driven  him 
there  was  removed.  Often  for  weeks  at  a 
stretch  he  would  not  go  at  all  unless  it  was  nec- 
essary to  get  some  tools  or  supplies  for  the  farm. 
Then  rather  than  take  any  of  his  men  away  from 
work,  he  would  himself  hitch  up  a  team  and  drive 
the  five-  miles.  Sitting  hunched  over  on  the 
spring-seat  of  a  big  farm  wagon,  clad  in  overalls 
and  a  print  shirt,  with  a  wide  hat  tilted  against 
the  sun  and  a  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lips,  he 
was  indistinguishable  from  any  other  paisano  on 
the  road.  This  change  in  appearance  was  helped 

[262] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

by  the  fact  that  he  had  grown  a  heavy  moustache. 
Often,  as  he  drove  through  the  streets  of  the 
town,  he  would  pass  acquaintances  who  did  not 
recognize  him,  and  he  was  just  as  well  satisfied 
that  they  did  not. 

As  is  the  way  of  unreflecting  men,  Ramon 
formed  no  definite  opinion  of  his  life,  but  liked 
it  more  or  less  according  to  the  mood  that  was  in 
him.  There  were  bright,  cool  days  that  fall 
when,  lacking  work  to  do,  he  took  his  shot-gun 
and  a  saddle  horse  and  went  for  long  rambles. 
Sometimes  he  would  follow  the  river  northward, 
stalking  the  flocks  of  teal  and  mallards  that  dozed 
on  the  sandbars  in  the  wide,  muddy  stream, 
perhaps  killing  three  or  four  fat  birds.  Other 
times  he  went  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains  and 
hunted  the  blue  quail  and  cotton  tail  rabbits  in 
the  arroyos  of  the  foot-hills.  Once  he  and  his 
man  loaded  a  wagon  with  food  and  blankets  and 
drove  forty  miles  to  a  canyon  where  they  killed  a 
big  black-tail  buck,  and  brought  him  back  in  high 
triumph. 

Returning  from  such  trips  full  of  healthy 
hunger  and  weariness,  to  find  his  hot  supper  and 
his  woman  waiting  for  him,  Ramon  would  doze 
off  happily,  every  want  of  his  physical  being  sat- 
isfied, feeling  that  life  was  good.  .  .  .  But  there 
were  other  nights  when  a  strange  restlessness 
possessed  him,  when  he  lay  miserably  awake 

[263] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

through  long  dark  hours.  The  silence  of  the 
black  valley  was  emphasized  now  and  then  by  the 
doleful  voices  of  dogs  that  answered  each  other 
across  the  sleeping  miles.  At  such  times  he  felt 
as  though  he  had  been  caught  in  a  trap.  He  saw 
in  imagination  the  endless  unvaried  chain  of  his 
days  stretching  before  him,  and  he  rebelled  against 
it  and  knew  not  how  to  break  it.  His  experience 
of  life  was  comparatively  little  and  he  was  no 
philosopher.  He  did  not  know  definitely  either 
what  was  the  matter  with  him  or  what  he  wanted. 
But  he  had  tasted  high  aspiration,  and  desire 
bright  and  transforming,  and  wild  sweet  joy.  .  .  . 
These  things  had  been  taken  away,  and  now  life 
narrowed  steadily  before  him  like  a  blind  canyon 
that  pierces  a  mountain  range.  The  trail  at  the 
bottom  was  easy  enough  to  follow,  but  the  walls 
drew  ever  closer  and  became  more  impassable, 
and  what  was  the  end?  .  .  . 

This  sense  of  dissatisfaction  reached  its  futile 
crux  one  day  in  the  spring  when  he  received  a 
letter  from  Julia — the  last  he  was  ever  to  get. 
The  sight  and  scent  of  it  stirred  him  as  they 
always  had  done,  filling  him  with  poignant  pain- 
ful memories. 

"This  is  really  the  last  time  I'll  ever  bother 
you,"  she  wrote,  "but  I  do  want  to  know  what  has 
happened  to  you,  and  how  you  feel  about  things. 

[264] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

I  can't  forget.  All  our  troubles  seem  to  have 
worn  some  sort  of  a  permanent  groove  in  my  poor 
brain,  and  I  believe  the  thought  of  you  will  be 
there  till  the  day  of  my  death. 

"As  for  me,  I'm  in  society  up  to  my  eyes,  and 
absolutely  without  the  courage  or  energy  to  climb 
out.  Those  days  in  New  York  were  the  first  and 
the  last  of  my  freedom.  Now  I've  been  intro- 
duced to  everybody,  and  I  have  an  engagement 
book  that  tells  me  what  I'm  going  to  do  whether 
I  want  to  or  not  for  three  weeks  ahead.  I'm  a 
model  of  conduct  and  propriety  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  can't  travel  over  a  block  without 
everybody  that  I  know  finding  out  about  it. 

uOf  course  it  hasn't  all  been  a  bore.  I  have 
had  some  fun,  and  I've  met  some  really  interesting 
people.  I've  gotten  used  to  being  married  and 
my  husband  treats  me  kindly  and  gives  me  a  good 
home.  Sounds  as  if  I  was  a  kitten,  doesn't  it? 
Well,  I  have  very  much  the  same  sort  of  life  as  a 
kitten,  but  a  kitten  has  no  imagination  and  it  has 
never  been  in  love.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I 
can't  stand  it  any  longer.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I'm  not  really  living,  as  I  used  to  imagine  I  would, 
but  just  being  dragged  through  life  by  circum- 
stances and  other  people — I  don't  know  what  all. 
I  still  have  desperate  plans  and  ideas  once  in  a 
while,  but  of  course,  I  never  do  anything.  When 
you  come  right  down  to  it,  what  can  I  do?" 

[265] 


The  Blood  of  the  Conquerors 

Ramon  read  this  letter  sitting  on  the  sunny 
/side  of  his  house  with  his  heels  under  him  and 
his  back  against  the  wall — a  position  any  Mexican 
lean  hold  for  hours.  When  he  had  finished  it  he 
sat  motionless  for  a  long  time,  painfully  going 
over  the  past,  trying  ineptly  to  discover  what  had 
been  the  matter  with  it.  More  acutely  than  ever 
before  he  felt  the  cruel  guerdon  of  youth — the 
contrast  between  the  promise  of  life  and  its  ful- 
fillment. He  felt  that  he  ought  to  do  something, 
that  he  ought  not  to  submit.  But  somehow  all 
the  doors  that  led  out  of  his  present  narrow  way 
into  wider  fields  seemed  closed.  There  was  no 
longer  any  entrancing  vista  to  tempt  him.  Men- 
tally he  repeated  her  query,  What  could  he  do? 
His  thoughts  went  round  and  round  and  got 
nowhere.  The  spring  sunshine  soaked  into  his 
body.  A  faint  hum  of  early  insects  lulled  him, 
and  to  his  nostrils  came  the  scent  of  new-turned 
earth  and  manure  from  the  garden  where  his  man 
was  working.  He  grew  drowsy;  his  dissatisfac- 
tion simmered  down  to  a  vague  ££^ie  in  the  back- 
ground of  his  consciousness.  (^Idly.  he  tore  the 
letter  to  little  bits. 


THE    END 


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